


Who Are You Really?

by DuschaPendragon



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Based on a certain speculation about Season 5, Beheading, Come at me D&D, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Identity Issues, Multi, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Very graphic, Violence, What if it's Sansa instead of Jeyne, not for the faint hearted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 57
Words: 95,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3436541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DuschaPendragon/pseuds/DuschaPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Eyrie was no home, but she had been safe there, far away from her enemies.<br/>Now though, Petyr is planning to send her to back Winterfell. Sansa must face her past alone. She must returned to her empty ruin of a home, marry Roose Bolton's bastard and wait until the time comes when she can avenge her family.<br/>She knows nothing of her betrothed, but no one can be worse than Joffrey. Can they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Cold Welcome

**Author's Note:**

> I am in two minds about this speculation that Sansa will replace Jeyne Poole in Season five. On the one hand, I'm quite excited. I love Ramsay and I love Sansa, and it would be great to see Theon redeem himself by saving his old best friend's sister.  
> On the other hand, when I heard about it, I was angry because I had been planning to write this for ages! But a fellow writer said I should go ahead with it anyway, so here it is! (sorry in advance Sansa)

In the seat that had been her fathers, she looked like a young girl playing at Kings and Queens. Sitting it as though it were the throne she’d always longed for; back straight, chin tilted up, hands clasping the arms of the chair like possessive talons. As he made his way towards her, he was certain she thrust her chest out a little more and had subtly lowered the front of her dress. He allowed himself a small smile. “Your Grace.” He trilled, bowing deeply. She regarded him coldly, her bright green eyes narrowing as she decided whether or not the bow was a mocking one. “Rise Lord Baelish.” She flashed him a smile. Petyr’s face never flinched. He saw it, took in every delicious detail. _I despise you_ she hid. _But I need you_ he read. “It has been a long time.” Cersei said, still smiling. _What have you been doing_ her green eyes screamed. “Forgive me your grace. I’ve been doing as your father commanded me, bringing the Vale into the fold. I grieved when word reached me of King Joffrey’s death. And your fathers, of course.”  
“Come now Lord Baelish, you must have been distracted. You’ve suffered your own losses. I’m sorry to hear of your wife’s demise.” Cersei looked him up and down. _I still have my spies, even in the Vale_ he could smell the triumph on her.  
 _Sweetest of idiots, as if I did not know._  
“Yet I can’t help but notice you are not dressed for mourning. I’d have thought with the woman you loved dead you’d have much to grieve about.”  
“Of course your grace, but Lady Lysa…”  
“What makes you think I was talking about her?” Amusement sparkled in her eyes and he could hear the laughter in her voice. Petyr swallowed the bitter taste of hatred. “I’ve often found that mourning for too long weakens you. Better to find a more useful way to channel your grief, wouldn’t you agree, your grace?” He allowed his gaze to slip to her black silk gown. When his eyes met hers again, he knew his remark had struck home. “What do you want Lord Baelish?” Cersei hissed. “It seems strange that you would travel all this way to Kings Landing for some smashed up brothels.” She snorted. Petyr’s mouth twitched, betraying his amusement. “Your grace reads me like an open book. Indeed I do have a proposition for you, concerning the North.” He had expected the anger to flare up and Cersei did not fail to disappoint. She was just too…easy. “And what concern is the North of yours?” She snapped. “If you wish to have that too, you reach too high. The Wardenship of the North has been gifted to Roose Bolton, as reward for his services to the crown.” Every word was savage, tainted with anger and spite. Petyr lapped it up. It made her look the fool, and that was always entertaining. “Your grace, you misjudge me. I swear I have no desire to rule the North. The land is too dreary and…exposed for my taste. No, I had another idea in mind. One that would ensure the Northerners would remain loyal to the crown.” Cersei’s ears twitched and she leaned in slightly.  
“Go on.” She ordered.  
“I have heard a rumour that Lord Bolton’s bastard is to marry Arya Stark.” Cersei’s intrigued gaze hardened into suspicion.  
“Yes.” The tone could have been threatening.  
“I have heard another rumour that this Arya Stark is not Arya Stark at all. I have heard she is nothing more than a whore in service to House Bolton.” _My spies told me_. His concealed words were written in his gaze for her to see as plain as day. “I’m not sure what you are suggesting, Lord Baelish.” She hissed his name through gritted, pearly white teeth.  
“I’m suggesting that the Northerners will see right through it. Northern whores are no good at deception.”  
“So what do you suppose we do?” She was clearly irritated. Perhaps this Northern whore had been her idea in the first place. It was foolish enough to be thought up by Cersei. “The answer is simple, your grace. The Bastard of Bolton can marry Sansa Stark.” And with those words, all the beauty drained from the Queen Regents’ face. She reeled away from him as though he had struck her, her claws digging into the ornate carvings on her father’s chair. “Do you mean to tell me that you know the whereabouts of that murderous little bitch?” She roared. Petyr let the hackles stand for a little while longer. “I’m afraid not, your grace.” He glimpsed the disappointment in her eyes and waited for her fantasies of tearing Sansa’s head off with her bare hands to fade away before he continued. “You had the right of it with a fake Arya Stark. A Stark girl wedded to the Boltons would ensure that the Northern Lords would not rebel against their new Warden. But Arya Stark has not been seen since her father’s beheading. If she were to appear now at such a convenient time, the Northerners would start to wonder.”  
“Sansa was married to my brother.” Cersei spat. “She is still lawfully wedded to him.”  
“Of course, your grace. But there is another rumour that the marriage of Sansa Stark to the Imp was never consummated. And with no child and no bloodied sheet to prove otherwise, an annulment would be simple enough to acquire.” Petyr allowed himself a small smile when the Queen raised her head. He could already tell he had won. “An annulment would require the High Septon’s approval. This new High Septon is not as easily influenced as those before him, as I’m sure you are well aware of by now.” The challenge returned to Cersei’s green gaze.  
“I’m sure with the right amount of gold…”  
“Are you blind, Lord Baelish? When you visited your brothels, did you notice anything missing? All the gold plate, ornate statues and valuable tapestries?” Petyr remained silent, thinking. “No? That is because this new _High Septon_ appears to care little for gold or wealth. He appears to actually care for the Gods. So tell me, Lord Baelish, how do you suppose you’ll acquire the annulment?” The victory on Cersei’s face was tough to swallow. Petyr had no intention of keeping it down. “I will speak with the High Septon personally. I am sure we can come to some agreement. In the meantime, the girl can start for Winterfell. It is a long and treacherous journey.” Petyr bowed and turned to leave but Cersei’s words barred his way.  
“You have chosen a girl already?” She called, arching an eyebrow.  
“As I said, a Northern whore is no mummer. You need a true deceiver. A girl who has the highborn look and can carry off such a task.” Petyr heard the creak of Tywin Lannister’s chair as Cersei inched forward. He knew then that his snare had fooled the fool. “As it so happens, I have just the girl.”

***

“ _Avenge them_.” She whispered to herself once more. Petyr’s final words to her had managed to soothe her nerves for most of the journey. But now, as the King’s Road grew more rutted and they passed less and less travellers, they failed to have the same impact as they had done when she’d left the Vale. Sansa focused instead on the wilderness that rolled away from her. She edged her way closer to the window of the litter and breathed in the cold air. _Home, it is the scent of home._ When she closed her eyes, she could almost hear them all. Robb and Jon’s swords clashing against each other in a sure, steady rhythm. Bran laughed above her as he climbed a tree. She heard Arya behind her, trying to sneak up on her to smear mud on her gown. Somewhere, Rickon gurgled.  
When Sansa heard Lady begin to howl, slow and mournful, her eyes snapped open and she was alone once more.  
She continued to gaze out over the Northern moors, waiting. When a shape appeared on the horizon, a ghost of a smile touched her lips. _I am stronger within the walls of Winterfell_. But as they turned off the King’s Road and down the narrow track that would lead through winter town and onward to Winterfell, she realised something was not as it should be. And then she remembered.  
Did the great walls of Winterfell still stand? Or had they burned down with the rest of it? Sansa turned her gaze away from the window, her eyes suddenly widening in panic and she felt her stomach turning faster than the wheels of the litter. Without Winterfell, she was no one. Just a lost little girl with no dreams, no home and no hopes.  
Only a betrothal and the promise of yet another name. _They made me first a Lannister, now a Bolton._  
In truth, Sansa would rather she’d been stuck as a Stone. But she dared not say that. A Lady always minded her courtesies. Alayne Stone was dead and Sansa Stark had resurfaced from her ashes.  
 _“Avenge them.”_ She whispered again, before turning her gaze back to her ruin once more.

He shifted from foot to foot, trying to regain the feeling in his toes. No snow had fallen yet, but the sky grew greyer by the minute. And a great many minutes had passed already. “How much longer?” Ramsay muttered, rubbing his hands together. His father shot him a look that was even colder than the weather. “Soon.” Roose Bolton replied, before turning back to face the gate. Ramsay stamped his foot, half in frustration and half to try and prevent it from dropping off. Then he heard a stuttering sound beside him.  
Until the gates opened, he would entertain himself by listening to Lady Walda’s whimpers as she trembled in the cold. He was surprised she could feel it through so much skin.  
Time seemed to pass quicker after he’d noticed his slowly-freezing mother.  
A shout came, followed by the creaking of the gates. Four riders streamed in at a brisk trot and positioned themselves around the yard, their banners snapping in the icy breeze. Ramsay smirked. A bird and a moon. _That_ would strike fear in the hearts of enemies before a battle. His gazed turned fondly to the flayed man of his own House.  
When he faced forward again, his bride-to-be was being helped down from her litter. He eyed her curiously like he would a horse he planned to buy. From what he could see of her, draped in a plain grey cloak, clasped with a silver direwolf, she was well-formed. Her hair was redder than any shade of hair he’d seen before, and it shone even without the sun’s rays. She was a beauty too. High cheekbones, clear blue eyes and pale skin, free of any marks and blemishes. Perfect. A clean slate.  
Her gaze met his and for a moment, just a moment, he glimpsed something that made him more excited than her fresh pallet of skin. Defiance. He caught its scent on the air and had seen it in those sad blue eyes.  
“Lady Sansa, welcome home.” His father said softly, taking a step towards her. The courtyard held its breath. “Thank you, Lord Bolton.” She replied, bowing her head. _It is no good trying to fool us girl._ Ramsay had to bite back a wicked grin. If he had seen the flash of defiance, his father had most certainly spotted it too. “This is my son, Ramsay. Your betrothed.” Ramsay put on his most charming mask and moved towards her eagerly.  
“A pleasure, my lady.” He smiled, taking her hand gently and planting a soft kiss on it. There would be time for lessons later, when there were less eyes on them. “My Lord, I hope I will not disappoint you as a wife.” His betrothed replied. Up close, the skin was porcelain; beautifully fragile. “I’m certain you won’t.” Ramsay assured, licking his lips. “Shall we?” He offered her his arm. She slipped her small hand into the warm crook of his elbow. If she noticed his arm tighten around her fingers, she did not show it.  
Ramsay met the gaze of every Lord he passed, as did his betrothed.  


	2. Engagement Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay gives Sansa an engagement gift. Later on at dinner, she comes face to face with an old acquaintance, though his face is much changed.

She wanted to be alone, just for a moment, just to take everything in. But her betrothed did not allow her the time. “Allow me to show you to your chambers, my lady.” He said with a charming smile. She wanted to believe he would be good to her, but his charm was unsettling. Joffrey had been charming too. She had also not failed to notice the looks of concern and pity etched on the faces of the Lords she had passed. “Thank you, my Lord.” She graciously replied, trying to catch glimpses of the walls and chambers around her, or what was left of them. She was glad for his tight grip on her hand then. Winterfell was a stranger to her now. Even when Ramsay led her into the rooms that would serve as her chambers; it took her a moment to figure out whose it had once been, and even then she was not entirely sure. It was not the one she had shared with her sister and it was not big enough to be her father and mother’s. Sansa guessed it had belonged to Robb, though no trace of him remained. “I hope it pleases you.” Ramsay had stayed behind her while she’d taken it in. When she turned, Sansa was suddenly fearful by how he stood in front of the door, blocking her one escape route. His charming smile soon changed to a sinister smirk. “I have a gift for you.” His voice was as soft as velvet, yet sharp as a blade.  
Sansa met his gaze, straightened her back, tilted her chin and suppressed a shiver. “You are too kind my Lord.” Her voice was cold as stone. Ramsay’s smile never faltered. “It is awfully cold this side of the castle, so I thought you’d want something to keep you warm. Myranda, bring my betrothed her engagement present.” Ramsay stepped aside to allow a slim, sullen looking girl into the room. Myranda stalked towards her but Sansa paid her no mind, choosing instead to focus on Ramsay’s gleeful expression. When the serving girl stopped in front of her and held out her arms, Sansa looked. Draped across the handmaiden’s pale hands was a thick wolf pelt. The fur was the colour of smoke and soft to the touch. Sansa smoothed her hand across it, then pulled her hand away as the realisation dawned on her.  
She stared at it, waiting for him to come alive. A feral growl filled the room and she was not sure if she had imagined it or not. She looked to Ramsay to see if he’d heard it too. It appeared he had not. “Well, do you like it?” He asked, his cruel smile broadening. For a moment, Sansa was back in King’s Landing, staring up at her father’s head skewered on the walls of the Red Keep. She stared at Grey Wind’s pelt but she did not see, just like she had done when Joffrey had shown her her father’s head. “Well?” She could hear the irritation in Ramsay’s voice. He sounded like Joffrey, petulant and annoyed by her calm reaction. Like that time at the Red Keep, some sort of madness took hold of her and she found herself smiling, holding back laughter. “If it pleases you, my Lord.” She had to bite her cheek to prevent herself from snorting. She pulled her gaze away from Grey Wind to look at Ramsay’s irritated expression.  
Her laughter froze in her throat.  
It was not irritation on his face. It was a mixture of anger, hatred and curiosity. And it was more terrifying than Joffrey’s petulant pout had ever been.  
This was not King’s Landing. They were not on the battlements of the Red Keep now and there was no wall to consider throwing him off of. He made no threat to bring her her brother’s head because her brother was gone already. Robb couldn’t save her now.  
Ramsay was no Joffrey. He was of the North; cold and hard and mean.  
“Thank you for your gift my Lord.” She said, bowing her head. It did not seem to please him. “I’ll see you at dinner.” He growled, stalking from the room in search of other, more entertaining prey. Myranda remained with her. Sansa didn’t like the way she smiled, as though amused. “I would like some privacy please.” Sansa’s voice was barely higher than a whisper. Myranda’s grin widened. “Of course m’lady. I’ll leave this on the bed, shall I, m’lady?” Her words were mocking and Sansa used what courage remained in her to nod. Grey Wind was settled onto the bed. As soon as the heavy door slammed shut, Sansa staggered over to it and buried hair face deep into the folds of the fur, suffocating itself with its scent. She tried her best to imagine what he had smelled like. Lady had always had a fresh, sweet, earthy smell and Sansa used to spend hours just brushing her soft fur. She had never seen Robb brush Grey Wind. No doubt he had in the privacy of his chambers, or his tent when Robb had gone to war.  
She’d heard tales of her brother’s battles. How he always led the vanguard into battle, like a true King should. She’d also heard rumours that he could control Grey Wind’s mind. That he _became_ his wolf. That rumour would always make Sansa sad, and her heart would yearn for Lady.  
Now though, it made her strong. She was a wolf too.  
In a moment of grief and madness, Sansa stripped herself of her cloak, wool dress and linen shift until she stood naked. Goose prickles covered her skin as the cold air crept over her. She quickly shielded herself from it, covering her pale skin with the wolf pelt, burrowing into it as she crawled onto the bed.

She must have drifted off amongst the warm furs, for she was soon woken by the sound of footsteps. Sansa was alert before her eyes were even open. The footsteps drew closer to her chamber yet no panic rose within her. It was time for dinner. Ramsay had played his little trick. He wouldn’t dare to torment her in front of the Northern Lords. Climbing out from beneath the wolf pelts, clinging to the courage they gave her, Sansa slipped on her shift just as Myranda opened the door. “I will need hot water for my bath, please.” She said, rubbing her arms to fight off the chill of Myranda’s scornful gaze.   
“You slept too long. There’s no time for a bath now.” The handmaid snapped. Sansa was taken aback by the bite of it. She had never been spoken to in such a way by a handmaiden. “You will never speak to me like that again. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. I’m sure you are just not used to serving highborn women, so I will let it pass this once. But if you dare to speak to me in such a way again, I will tell Lord Bolton and you will be at his mercy. Is that understood?” Myranda’s face was one of shock. Sansa was shocked herself. Never before had she spoken so sharply to someone. She liked how it felt, especially when Myranda bowed her head submissively. “Yes m’lady. I’m sorry m’lady.” All the scorn was gone from her voice. “Would you like me to fill a bathtub m’lady?” Myranda asked. Still shell-shocked from her outburst, Sansa choked on her words. “No, just…just brush my hair.” She moved over to the dresser and sat down. Myranda was not gentle but Sansa didn’t mind. The pain felt good.

Once again, she was dressed in the Stark colours. There was a white ribbon entwined amongst the simple braids in her hair and the sleeves of her gown were slashed with white silk. The rest of the dress was grey wool. She had missed these colours. In the South, everything had been elaborate and rich; the dresses, the jewellery, the hair. Everything she had dreamed of when she was a silly little girl.  
This felt like home again.  
Sansa pinched her cheeks so they reddened and gave her some colour before leading the way from the room with Myranda following close behind. When they reached the hall, she feared they were late. No one had begun eating yet though and as the doors opened and she stepped in, a hush fell over the crowd. Every eye was on her. Sansa kept her head up, smiling softly, meeting each gaze. _Avenge them_. Her eyes eventually fell on the raised dais, where Lord Bolton sat beside his Frey wife. An empty chair awaited her between Lord Bolton and her betrothed. Sansa walked with a sure-footed gait, never taking her eyes away from the dais. She did not fail to notice that Lord Bolton sat in the seat that had once been her father’s. _That survived too._ Of course. It was made of stone. “Forgive me for being late my Lord.” She said when she reached the foot of the dais.  
“You are forgiven, Lady Sansa. You have had a long journey.” She smiled gratefully and moved towards the chair that awaited her. Noise returned to the hall as she took her seat and food was served, though Sansa found she had little appetite. She took a few spoonfuls of bean and bacon soup, then set the spoon back on the table. She gazed out over the boisterous crowd , her eyes clouding over with memories and she began to see familiar faces. Her brothers and sister, her mother and father, Jory, Rodrick, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole. There were more. King Robert was there too, and Queen Cersei. Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella, Jaime Lannister, Tyrion…  
Just like it had been when the King had visited Winterfell, all those years ago.  
“My Lady, are you quite well?” She heard Roose Bolton ask. Sansa blinked and the past had gone. “Yes my Lord.” She answered.  
“You have barely touched your food. Perhaps you would like some wine?” Ramsay broke in. Wine. Wine somehow sounded like a good idea. “If it please you.” Sansa smiled, still staring out at the crowd, longing to glimpse a familiar face.  
“Reek, pour my betrothed some wine.” Sansa was suddenly startled when something moved beneath the table. She turned to Ramsay for some explanation and met the sinister smirk again. From behind her, a filthy hand appeared and placed a goblet on the table in front of her. Sansa felt her stomach turn as she noticed the missing fingers. “Thank you.” She stammered, turning to catch a glimpse of the maimed hands owner.  
The sea blue eyes met hers only for a moment before flinching away.  
Sansa stared in disbelief, wondering if she had not yet quite snapped out of her dream of the dead. Perhaps she had not been woken up and was still curled up in the comfort of Grey Wind’s fur.  
 _No. This hatred is too real._  
“Theon.” Her voice was half a gasp, half a growl. She recoiled from him out of instinct, making him start. The flagon of wine slipped through his maimed hands and clattered onto the table, splattering the cloth and the front of her dress. The hall fell silent at the sound of the flagon smashing on meeting the floor. Sansa was too fixated on the red wine spreading across the grey wool to notice Reek’s ashen face. “Reek, come here pet.” Ramsay’s voice was dangerously quiet and Sansa turned to see he was still grinning, though his eyes were now hard and focused on the creature that had once been her father’s ward. As soon as Reek was in range, Ramsay’s hand struck out and grabbed the collar of the soiled tunic. “Do you wish to lose another finger Reek?” Ramsay hissed just loud enough for Sansa to her. It was no empty threat, Sansa could tell. She looked about the hall but all the Lords had turned away and started up conversation, as though this was _normal_. “Please, master…I’m sorry…please let me keep me fingers…please…” The creature begged. Sansa watched him closely, ashamed by her curiosity. What had happened to him? The arrogant, cocky youth that had betrayed her brother was nowhere to be seen. “You do beg so prettily Reek, but it is not I you spilled wine on.” Ramsay turned to look at Sansa. “Lady Sansa, what should I do with my clumsy pet? Should I take a finger?” Sansa was at a loss for words. What did he want her to say? “I…if it please you, my Lord.” She stammered, unable to think of anything else to say. Ramsay made a tutting sound. “You disappoint me Lady Sansa. If we are to be married, you are going to have to be a lot more…imaginative.” Ramsay took a sip of wine. Reek trembled. Sansa stared down at her wine spattered dress, suddenly fearful.


	3. Brooding Over Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes some observations. Ramsay seems to be in a bad mood and she is both frightened and curious by his sudden mood changes.

Sansa woke to the sound of horses and men shouting. She sat up in bed, feeling the soft sheets beneath her and gazing around the room, forgetting where she was for a moment. _Winterfell, I am at Winterfell. I am home._ The words did nothing to convince her. Pushing back the covers, Sansa climbed out of bed and padded over to the window. Her view was of the moors North of Winterfell, and she wondered if this was another of Ramsay’s tricks. He seemed to love trying to upset her with her past; Grey Wolf’s skin, Theon Greyjoy, and now the view. On a rare, very clear day, you could see The Wall stretching out across the horizon; a never ending line separating land from sky. Today was not a clear day, but Sansa could still see it in her mind’s eye. _My brother is out there._ Jon was only her half-brother, but he was all she had left now. When she was younger, she had never paid him any attention. Her mother had seemed to despise him and Sansa had never wanted to displease her. How Sansa longed for things to have been different. “I’m sorry Jon.” She whispered aloud. Sansa turned her back to the window. It was early morning and the noises that had awoken her were calling. Perhaps it was another Lord coming to see Eddard Stark’s daughter married to the Warden of the North’s son. _How must they feel about that?_ By their behaviour yesterday, Sansa could already tell she had much to learn about her betrothed. Much that the Northern Lords already knew.  
She dressed herself as Myranda was nowhere to be found; fumbling clumsily with the laces of her dress. She fastened her cloak with the silver direwolf pin Petyr had gifted to her when they’d parted. She fingered it as she left the room, gaining courage from every groove her finger traced.  
It was colder outside her chambers. Sansa had almost forgotten how cold the North was. In King’s Landing, she’d seen Winterfell as home and had forgotten the reasons she’d wanted to leave in the first place. The halls seemed darker than when she was last there, and the damage caused by the fire the ironborn started allowed draughts in. Sansa took her time wandering down the halls, trying to get her bearings. It was clear that the hot springs’ system was damaged as the Keep only seemed to grow colder the further she went.  
Eventually, the sounds of men and horses drew her to the bridge that connected the Keep to the armoury. It had clearly been restored following the fire and the armoury was now only a hollow shell in the process of being restored, but it gave her a clear view of the courtyard bellow. Blue and grey filled the yard, and Sansa’s heart skipped a beat at the assumption of Petyr sending more of the Lords from the Vale to save her, or at least help her. Then the wind picked up and sent a banner fluttering from its pole, revealing the twin towers of Frey. Sansa’s heart sank, her hope replaced by anger.   
_Avenge them_.   
She turned away and found her path blocked by Ser Mychel Redfort, a knight from the Vale who had been part of her escort. “Ser Mychel.” She smiled, glad to see a familiar face at last.  
“Lady Sansa.” He replied. “Admiring the view?” Mychel asked with a smile, looking down at the gaggle of Frey’s. Sansa refrained from making an unladylike face. “You are well enough I trust, my Lady?”  
“It is good to be home.” Sansa admitted. Freys might fill the courtyard, but it was still the same courtyard that her brother’s had trained in, that her sister had wanted to train in and that she and her friends had watched the men train in.  
“The company could be better.” Mychel laughed. He was comely enough and had been considered one of the best swordsmen in the Vale. Tales of his gallantry had made almost all the ladies in the Eyrie swoon. Sansa would have joined in the swooning once, but her weakness for knights had steeled when she’d met so many who had not been so gallant. Still, she was glad to hear someone laugh and she appreciated Mychel’s attempts to raise her spirits. “I trust you and your fellow knights have settled in well?” Sansa asked, watching closely as Roose Bolton stepped out to greet his friends the Freys.  
“Well enough.” Mychel shrugged. “My room was cold though.” Sansa didn’t hear him, too intent on watching Roose. The man rarely smiled, but she could tell he was trying to look amused at something a Frey had said. “Scary man, Roose Bolton.” Mychel pointed out. Sansa nodded, her eyes never leaving the pale figure. He passed from man to man, changing his behaviour slightly for each one. _Player_ Sansa concluded.  
“Your new husband seems…charming.” The word husband commanded her attention.  
“Yes. He is.” She replied, unsure of how else to describe him. Mychel meant well, but she was well aware that he asked too many questions. He was working for someone. Whether it was the Lords of the Vale or Littlefinger, she wasn’t sure. She did not know how the Lords of the Vale would react if she told Mychel of Ramsay’s ‘gift’. No doubt Petyr knew what her betrothed was like even before he had planned to marry her off to him. It was the way the game went. “Well, breakfast should be served soon, and it looks like there’ll be less room on the benches than yesterday. Anyone would think Walder Frey had sent his entire brood to attend your wedding!” Mychel laughed some more. “Good day, my Lady.” He smiled.  
“And to you, Ser Mychel.” He headed the way she had come and she waited until he’d disappeared before turning back to make further observations. When she spotted him again, he met her gaze. There was something in that gaze that reminded her so much of Littlefinger that it made her smile. To her surprise, Roose seemed to smile back his thin-lipped smile.  
 _A player indeed._

Breakfast was a simple affair; two soft boiled eggs, black bread, cheese, bacon and ale to wash it down. Sansa asked for watered-down wine instead, which was brought to her by a serving girl instead of the clumsy creature that was Theon. He was under the table again. Sansa heard him whimper each time Ramsay moved. Ramsay himself seemed to be in a terrible mood; his eyebrows were furrowed, mouth set in a grimace and he stabbed at his bacon as though it were the flesh of his enemies. Yet Sansa tried her very best to converse with her betrothed. “Did you sleep well, my Lord?” She asked with a pleasant smile, taking a delicate bite of bread. Ramsay turned to look at her, seemingly startled by her attempt at conversation. “Well enough.” He grunted, continuing to stab and slice mercilessly at his bacon. Sansa watched him for a moment, then turned away. It was her turn to be surprised when he spoke again. “You?” He settled his knife down and took a swig of ale, turning his gaze to meet hers.  
“Yes my Lord, very. My chambers were cold but, thanks to your generous gift, my bed was warm.” She smiled again and took a sip of her wine. She could see anger and amusement fighting each other in his eyes. But the look of curiosity returned once more. It was the second time she had seen it. This time though, it caused the blood to flush to her cheeks and she had to turn away and pray that he hadn’t seen it. “I’m glad you liked the gift.” She could hear laughter in his voice. He returned to slicing his bacon, a little less violently than before, and gave Theon another swift kick. It was so hard that the creature cried out and the table shook. Sansa frowned. “Has Theon done something wrong?” She asked. _He’s done a great many things wrong, nothing that a kick could fix.  
_ It was Sansa’s turn to jump and cry out when Ramsay’s knife came slicing down to pierce the table, the pointing digging into the wood only inches away from her fingers. “His name is Reek.” Ramsay hissed savagely. All the blood drained from Sansa’s face as she stared at the knife that had landed so close to her fingertips. Her breathing was sharp and ragged and it took a moment for her to realise that the hall had fallen silent. Everyone was staring up at them. Sansa kept the look of terror on her face, adding enough of a tremble so that the closest of the Lords would see. Beside her, she felt Ramsay tense as he realised they had all seen his unsaid threat. He began to laugh. “And that, dearest Sansa, is how you stab somebody.” It was a valiant attempt that fooled no one. Sansa could sense the hatred of the Northern Lords slowly mounting. Their glares burned. Ramsay looked around desperately. He yanked the knife out of the wood and held it up so it glinted in the light. “But if you want a real master at the subject, you should ask my father.” And suddenly the hatred shifted from her left to her right. Sansa turned to observe Roose Bolton’s reaction. A twitch at the corner of his mouth. That was the only hint that the man was livid. Roose turned his gaze towards the Lords below him, dealing each of them a cold stare. The anger slowly began to melt away.

When Sansa returned to her chambers, she was shaking with both fear and a curious excitement. The way Roose had managed to rid himself of the angry glares fascinated her. With just one _look_ , he’d had all of the Lords trembling. Northern Lords at that.  
Sansa was so distracted that she didn’t notice the shred of parchment for a long while. She eventually found it when she sat down on her bed to remove her boots. It stuck out from beneath the feather pillow. Sansa pulled it out delicately, as though she feared it would crumble to pieces in her hands. It was no formal letter. It wasn’t even sealed; simply a scrap of parchment folded several times. She prized the folds opened and was disheartened to find only two simple words. _Soon, sweetling_.  
They were Petyr’s words, but not his hand.  
The writing was scrawled, unpractised and childlike. Sansa wondered who it might be, but she was glad Petyr had his own people here with her. _I am not completely alone._  
Then it dawned on her.  
 _Soon._  
Petyr had almost gotten the annulment. She would soon no longer be Sansa Lannister. Somehow though, Sansa Bolton did not please her either.   


	4. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa makes a new friend. Ramsay goes on a hunt after a very dull meeting. However, the hunt doesn't go strictly to plan.

Footsteps from beyond the door startled her into motion. Sansa flew to the hearth and pushed the note in amongst the logs. She felt a searing pain shock her knuckles as her hand pressed against a burning log. Despite the heat though, the fire wasn’t burning. Gripped by panic, Sansa began to stab in amongst the logs like she’d seen servants do. Slowly, smoke began to rise as her note burned. Sansa watched as the scrap of parchment curled up and the flames took hold of it, breathing a sigh of relief as the panic ebbed away. Moments later, the door opened and Myranda entered the room. Sansa watched her as she moved around, wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t burned the note in time. No doubt the handmaiden would have told Lord Bolton. The thought of what would happen next made her shudder. “Can I help you with something, my Lady?” Myranda asked when she caught Sansa staring at her.  
“No. I’m fine.” She moved over to the window whilst the other girl continued working. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Myranda. At first, the serving girl had seemed to loath her for some reason. After Sansa had scolded her for it, the girl was subdued; doing all the tasks Sansa had asked of her without uttering a word. She couldn’t help but think of Shae, who had been perhaps the only truly honest person in the whole of King’s Landing. Shae had always been kind to her. She spoke too much for her own good yes, but they had become friends.  
Sansa missed having friends, but she wasn’t about to admit that to Myranda.  
“I don’t suppose any of the Northern Lords have brought their wives or daughters to Winterfell?” Sansa inquired, turning to look at Myranda. The handmaiden seemed startled, surprised that Sansa had asked _her_. Myranda just shrugged. “Not that I know of, m’lady. Not many highborn girls think to introduce themselves to me. I haven’t seen any. Only Fat…I mean…only Lady Walda, m’lady.” Myranda never looked at her, just carried on tidying the room. Sansa turned back to gaze out the window, a smile playing on her lips. _Walda Frey. Now wouldn’t she make for an interesting friend._ “Where would I find Lady Bolton at this hour? It has been such a long time since I’ve been in the company of a Lady.” Sansa smiled sweetly. Myranda met her gaze then and, for a moment, Sansa swore she had seen a smile flit across her lips. “She’ll be in her chambers m’lady. Would you like me to see if she would accept your company?” Myranda asked, her eyes shining.  
“Yes, thank you Myranda. Tell her I would like nothing more.”

The fat woman scrambled to her feet as soon as Sansa entered the room; tall, graceful and beautiful. “Lady Sansa.” Walda muttered, attempting a curtsey. Sansa stifled a laugh. If Walda had ever curtseyed like that in front of Queen Cersei she would have been thrown out of King’s Landing. “Lady Walda, it was very kind of you to see me. I know you must be very busy.” On the contrary, Myranda had informed Sansa that Lady Walda wasn’t busy at all and seemed to spend most of her time in her chambers, eating and embroidering, only coming out for meals or greeting Lords. Sansa continued to smile, her eyes distracted by Walda’s wobbling chins. “I’m not busy at all, Lady Sansa. Please, sit down.” She gestured to a seat and Sansa took it, thanking her.  
“Have you been doing some sewing?” She asked, looking at the bundle of cloth in Walda’s lap. Too nervous to speak, Walda just nodded. Sansa could see her cheeks reddening. She had a kindly face. Not comely, but her fat cheeks prevented her from showing the weasel-like features most of her family members possessed. “May I see?” Sansa held out her hand expectantly.  
“I…I’m afraid I’m not very good…” Walda stumbled, twisting the cloth around her chubby fingers.  
“Oh _please_ let me look. I’m sure it is lovely.”  
It wasn’t.  
Walda’s stitches made the ones Arya used to do look neat. _Abysmal_. Sansa smiled at the sound of Septa Mordane’s voice. “It’s lovely. The colours you’ve chosen are beautiful. Lord Bolton is fortunate to have such a talented wife.” Sansa could hear Margaery in her voice, and that made her smile all the more.  
“Do you…do you think so?” Walda’s eyes shone with pride. She looked at Sansa adoringly, as though she were some goddess, the way Sansa had once looked at Cersei. “Absolutely. It will make for a handsome tunic.” The more she looked at it, the clearer the picture Walda had attempted to embroider became. It was the gruesome flayed man of House Bolton. Sansa hastily handed it back to Walda, wiping her hands on her dress afterward. “It’s not for my husband actually.” Walda admitted, gazing down at the cloth fondly. “It’s for…for my baby.” The fat woman smiled and laid a tender hand on her large stomach.  
“You are with child? That’s wonderful news.” Once again, it was Margaery’s voice she heard, not her own. For a strange moment, Sansa saw the child not as an innocent babe, but as a threat. If it was a boy, it would be Roose Bolton’s legitimate son. He would inherit the North, not her betrothed. “Does Lord Bolton know yet?” Sansa asked, smiling.  
“No. I’m not sure how I should go about telling him…”  
“Oh, you should wait.” She urged, still smiling.  
“Really?” Walda’s brow furrowed in confusion.  
“Yes! Wait until the day of my wedding. It will be such a happy occasion and then Lord Bolton can announce it to all the Northern Lords together. He will be pleased that you waited until then to tell him.”  
“Do you think so?” Walda’s eyes were wide with wonder and admiration, drinking in every breath Sansa took.  
“Yes, I really do.” Sansa sat tall in her chair, every inch the Lady. Slowly, Walda began to copy her position; first the straightening of the back, then the chin tilt, followed by an awkward crossing of feet. Sansa continued to smile warmly at her, but behind it was concern. She had to get word to Petyr of Walda’s pregnancy somehow. Perhaps it would change things and he could work out a way to get her out before the wedding took place. She was sure he would appreciate her discovery.  
“I have a mind to walk the Godswood. It has been so long since I have been there. May I visit you again, Lady Bolton?” Sansa asked, standing up.  
“Y…yes, of course!” Walda squeaked.  
“Very well.” Sansa laughed. “And you must tell no one of what we spoke of. It can be our little secret for now. Friends always share secrets, don’t they?” Walda’s chins jiggled as she bobbed her head. “Good. Goodbye my Lady.” Sansa curtseyed and went to leave the room. Just as she reached the door, it swung open, revealing Roose Bolton on the other side of it. Sansa froze. The room seemed to grow colder. He looked from Sansa, to Walda, to Sansa again. His eyebrow twitched with suspicion. “Lady Sansa.” He said quietly.  
“Lord Bolton.” She forced herself to smile but couldn’t help feeling that he saw the fear beneath. Littlefinger could always tell when she was lying too. Trying her best to avoid the gaze that made her blood freeze, Sansa left the room.  
Her fear subsided the moment she was through the door and she lingered long enough to hear their words. “What did Lady Sansa want?” Sansa had to strain to hear his words through the thick oak door.  
“Just some company, my Lord.” Walda giggled. She heard Lord Bolton move across the room, closing in on his fat, juicy prey. “I hope you aren’t lying to me wife. You know what I do to liars.” It sounded almost like a jest but Sansa heard the threat in it. Walda giggled again nervously. Sansa moved away from the door then; safe with the knowledge that she and Walda’s secret was safe. For now anyway.

He followed the tracks through the snow with a hunter’s step and a hammering heart. He was close now. He was sure he could smell her sweet scent. Reek lumbered along behind him a little less quietly. Ramsay didn’t bother to slow down for him. The morning had been slow enough already; their meeting with the Frey’s had been as dull as Walder and Walder’s voices. After the most interesting news had been announced (that two Frey’s had gone missing on the way South. So what? It’s not like there weren’t more to replace them.) he had fallen into a daydream where it was just he and Reek alone in his bedchamber. Until Sansa had rudely interrupted them.   
The deeper they went into the Godswood, the thinner the snow became. But her tracks were still easy to spot, especially with his hunter’s instincts kicking in. He caught a glimpse of red through the trees and padded closer, peering at her through the dying leaves. Reek still heaved beside him from the effort of walking.  
Sansa knelt beneath the Weirwood tree; head bowed, hands-clasped. She had spread her cloak out on the ground to prevent mud getting on her dress. If she was cold, she didn’t show it. A part of Ramsay wanted to scare her somehow, but another wanted to observe. He was curious as to how these highborn women functioned, he had met so few. Fat Walda didn’t count. She was a Frey. Besides, his betrothed was not bad to look at. Each time he looked at her he spotted something that he hadn’t noticed before. Right now, for instance, it was the length of her neck. It was a long, elegant neck.   
He was sure he’d be able to fit just one of his hands around it, if he squeezed hard enough.  
Whilst Ramsay was fantasising about her dainty, easily-accidentally-snapped neck, a cold breeze picked up. It swirled around them, causing Ramsay’s cloak to snap and Reek to whine and cringe from the cold. “Shut up Reek!” Ramsay hissed, looking back over at Sansa. She was looking around her as the wind pulled at her hair and skirts. She had not seemed to have heard them. Another breeze sighed through the trees, and with it came a voice. _Sansa_ it whispered.  
Ramsay held his breath.  
His betrothed was staring at the face of the Weirwood tree in disbelief. It looked exactly the same to him; a pissed off expression with sap running out of its eyes and nose.  
But Sansa seemed to see something different. She reached out and touched the smooth wood, caressing the knarled face. “Bran?” He heard her mutter. Now Ramsay really wanted to snap her neck. Instead, he looked down at Reek who cringed from him in fear. With one hand, he lifted his weak little pet up off of the ground by the scruff of his neck, using his other hand to smother Reek’s yelp. “Back to my chambers, now.” He growled. Reek’s eyes bulged with terror and realisation but before he could plead for mercy Ramsay threw him to the ground, kicking him up the backside to get him moving.


	5. What Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa struggles to deal with the goings on in the Godswood. Ramsay isn't handling it too well either. Sadly Reek is the only one he can take his frustration out on.

Sansa stared at her brother’s face. It was him, she was sure. She stood before the tree, unblinking, her hand stroking the smooth bark. Too soon her eyelids were forcing their way down. When the darkness cleared, Bran’s face was gone. Sansa continued to watch it, willing for it to change again. The same frown remained, accompanied by the mouth that gaped open in a silent wail of despair. She started as a raven squawked above her. Sansa looked up and spotted, not one, but a dozen of the birds dotted amongst the red leaves and she couldn’t help but feel that they were _watching_ her. Were they Maester Luwin’s birds? Had they been here all this time, waiting for their Master to return? “He’s dead.” Her voice was barely a whisper. The nearest raven cocked his head. “He’s dead. They’re all dead. Everyone!” She cried. Then a sudden anger swelled up inside her as they all watched, not understanding her words. It infuriated her more than she could say. “They’re all dead! Go. Get away from here!” She cried. They began to squawk, panicked by her sudden rage. “Go!” She screamed. A number of them took flight and the others followed. Sansa fell to her knees then, waiting for the tears. But none ever came. Her cheeks were frozen, her hands pale as ice. _Porcelain, to ivory, to steel._ She looked back up into the bare branches of the Weirwood. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” She heard herself utter the words, but had no idea where they had come from. She had not processed them in her own mind. It made Sansa suddenly afraid. She stood up and fastened her cloak, hurrying away from the Weirwood. She could feel the eyes of her Gods burning into her back, though their cold gaze gave her only strength.

The moment the door was open, Ramsay threw him inside. All memory of the voice in the woods was forgotten when Reek crashed to the floor, gasping and spluttering as the wind was knocked from his lungs. But instinct was stronger than his need for air. Reek got up onto all fours, still wheezing, and faced his Master. He crouched as low as he could, smashing his nose against the stone floor. “Master…I’m sorry…I only want to be good Reek…loyal Reek…please…”  
“And what have you got to be sorry for Reek?” His Master’s voice was a soft purr. Reek looked up at him, knowing Ramsay liked to see his eyes. Reek let out a fearful whine as Ramsay crouched down in front of him, running his fingers through Reek’s matted curls. Again, instinct forced him to lean into the touch. The moment he moved, Ramsay’s finger’s tightened and Reek yelped out in pain. “I believe I asked you a question.” Master growled, his eyes full of rage and anger. Reek’s eyes widened with panic. _Stupid Reek_. What _had_ he done? “I…I’ve angered you Master…I am so sorry…please…no pain…please…”  
“Oh my stupid pet. You think I’m angry with you for making me angry? Did I take away your brains when I took your cock, pet?” His voice was mocking, his eyes laughed.  
“Y…yes? Master?” Reek squeaked, knowing Ramsay wanted an answer. All the warmth drained from the room as his Master morphed into a monster. “Oh dear pet. I think I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.” Ramsay hissed. Reek whined again, then cried out as Ramsay grabbed his throat and flipped him onto his back, slamming him down so hard that Reek could taste blood in his mouth. “What is your name?”  
“Reek.”  
“And who am I?”  
“Master.”  
“Did I take your brains as well as your balls?” Reek stared up at his master in confusion until Ramsay backhanded him. His grip on Reek’s throat tightened. “I’ll ask you again. Did I take _your_ brains along with _your_ balls?” Ramsay roared, lowering himself onto Reek, crushing the frail frame.  
“M…master…I don’t understand…I…” Reek screamed as he felt Ramsay’s free hand on _that_ place. He saw only white spots as his Master applied pressure. “Please, Master…stop! I am good Reek!” He pleaded. The pressure only grew and it took Reek a moment to realise that it wasn’t Ramsay’s _hand_ that was causing the pain anymore. “Are you Reek? Are you my good pet?” Reek bobbed his head up and down frantically, no longer able to talk through the pain. “Well then my _good_ pet, you know that you aren’t a man, don’t you?” Reek nodded again. “You don’t have what men have, do you Reek? You aren’t a man, are you?” The pain between Reek’s legs threatened to overpower him but Ramsay slapped him back into the horrific reality. Reek nodded his reply. “Not a man. Just Reek. Just good, loyal, loving Reek. I’ve never been a man. Just Reek. Just Master’s. Please…Master…it hurts so bad!” He squeaked, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.  
“Does it pet? I’m not sure. I’m quite enjoying it.” To Reek’s horror, Ramsay began to rub himself against him, causing the white spots to return to Reek’s vision.  
He was close to passing out when the door was flung open and Lord Bolton walked in. He stared down at them. It took Ramsay a while to even realise his father was there. “You should really knock on the Lord of Winterfell’s door before you open, father.” Ramsay muttered. Reek could still hear anger in his voice. He stayed where he was, not that he’d be able to move even if he’d wanted to. Despite Ramsay having stood up and the pressure having gone, Reek could still see spots. “You aren’t Lord of Winterfell yet.” Roose Bolton reminded him.  
“Of course. Not until I marry the Lady Stark.” Ramsay practically spat the name, making Reek flinch.  
“Sansa Stark is a better match than you could ever dare hope for. Lord Baelish has acquired the annulment, as you well know. You will be married within the fornight.” Lord Bolton’s voice was little more than a whisper, but Reek could still hear the venom in it.  
“Is there an actual reason you have come and interrupted Reek’s training? We were in the middle of an experiment. Weren’t we pet?” Reek whimpered a reply.  
“The whole of Winterfell can hear your…experiment.” Roose said, his gaze lingering on the half-conscious Reek.  
“Do you want me to punish him for screaming too loudly?” Ramsay retorted bitterly, pouring himself a cup of wine. Reek groaned inwardly at the thought. “If I hear him again before the wedding, you’ll be the one whose screams the Lords hear.” Roose warned as casually as if he were threatening to send his son to bed without supper. “Not that you’ll get the chance. He needs to play his part again.”  
“What? Why?” It was Ramsay’s turn to whine now.  
“You know why. She has no family left. He’s the closest thing we’ve got to give her away.” Roose’s pale gaze never left Reek’s and he found he began to tremble uncontrollably beneath it.  
“Fine. I’ll sort it out later.” Ramsay growled, slamming his cup down onto the table.  
“No. I’ll be taking him with me now.” Reek’s eyes widened with sudden terror. He couldn’t be taken away from Master! He just couldn’t! But Roose’s gaze held no room for argument. With a snarl, Ramsay moved towards his pet, helping to drag him up onto his feet. Reek bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain. His Master kindly wiped the blood away, holding his gaze all the while. _Betray me_ they said _and I’ll flay every inch of you_. “What do you tell them?” Ramsay asked. Reek knew this one. He remembered. “I’m Theon Greyjoy, son of Balon, heir to the Iron Islands.” His tone was flat and lifeless, but he couldn’t stop himself from straightening his shoulders a little.  
“And what are you really?”  
“I’m Reek.”  
“Until when?”  
“Always. Forever.” Ramsay cupped his face fondly then.  
“That’s right. Until you’re rotting in the ground.” Ramsay planted a rough kiss on his forehead, then stepped away, wrinkling his nose. “Take him away. His smell makes my stomach churn. Good luck getting that stench off.” Reek began to tremble as his Master turned his back on him. When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he cried out and saw his Master flinch before he was forced to turn and face Lord Bolton. “Come. Let’s get you ready Theon.” Reek whimpered as he felt Roose’s grip on his shoulder tighten. He managed to get one last glimpse of his Masters back before Theon was led away.


	6. Sansa Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tries her best to converse with her betrothed, but instead finds enjoyment in angering him. Ramsay notices this new side of her and does some thinking, coming to a conclusion that pleases him greatly. The two of them manage to agree on something.

Sansa was still shaken as Myranda prepared her for dinner. Roose Bolton had informed her that she and Ramsay would be married within the fortnight, but she’d barely heard him. _Sansa_. Bran’s voice went round and round her head. She had to get rid of it somehow. Distract herself. She couldn’t allow something she had most likely imagined stand in her way. _You just wanted to hear him, that’s all. Bran is dead along with everyone else._ Then Petyr’s voice joined Bran’s. _Avenge them._  
Her face was pale. No amount of cheek-pinching could return the blood to them so Sansa waved her handmaid away.  
As she took her seat beside Ramsay, she hardly noticed his dark mood. It wasn’t until she realised something was missing that she turned to see the anger that pinched his face. Sansa wasn’t sure whether she should speak. _He cannot hurt me here, not in front of everyone._ If they were to be married, she should at least try. There was small chance her message concerning Lady Walda’s condition would reach Petyr before the wedding and there was an even smaller chance he would be able to do anything about it in time if he did. Sansa would marry Ramsay, for only a short while if she was fortunate, and she would do her duty. As she always did.  
“I beg your pardon, my Lord, but I can’t help but notice that Theo…Reek…is absent.” She smiled at him gently but the anger and hatred seemed to radiate from him. Ramsay lifted his knife and began to bring the point down into the table.  
_“I’m practising.”_  
“Practising for what?”  
“The Prince.”  
“Stop that.” Sansa was once again shocked by the words that came unbidden to her lips. Ramsay’s repetitive stabbing ceased and he looked up at her, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Forgive me, my Lord. It’s just…you just reminded me of something my sister Arya used to do.” Arya. How she wished her little sister’s practise had come into play. Joffrey would have been dead much sooner. “Your sister?” He turned to look at her then. That strange look of curiosity returned to his face and Sansa had to do her best to suppress the blood that rushed to her cheeks. “Yes. She kept stabbing the table one time until my Septa told her off. She was angry with me. She was always angry with me.” Sansa couldn’t stop the smile from coming to her lips.  
“And where is she now?” Ramsay gave her a half-hearted smirk. He knew all too well what had become of her. “She’s dead.” Sansa looked down at her plate of food for a moment. Beside her, she could feel Ramsay’s anger slip away and be replaced by satisfaction. No. She wouldn’t let him do it again. He had been using her past against her every time they met. “Most likely, she’s dead. But my sister was a tough, wild little thing. There is always hope.” She met his gaze with her own satisfied smile, taking a sip of wine. The anger returned to Ramsay’s face and it made her smile grow wider. “Now where were we my Lord? I believe I asked you where Reek was.”

Tonight, it was her fingers. They clasped the goblet with a delicate grip, showing no sign of fear or anxiety. They were long and thin and delicate. So easily broken.  
Ramsay tried to suppress the blood that flushed to his face as the anger stirred within him. He looked her in the eyes, trying to make his gaze cold and cruel. He met only a smug satisfaction and it angered him more than he could bear. When he’d heard Sansa Stark was coming to Winterfell and that they would be married, he had expected a timid child; fit and ready to be moulded to his will. When he looked at her now, it was far from what he had expected. He’d thought she was porcelain. Before him now was steel. She continued to hold his gaze, refusing to back down. _Fine. If you won’t bend, I’ll break you._ He vowed. Ramsay looked away and picked up his cup of ale. How had the girl gotten so bold so fast? And how did she always mind her courtesies so well? Even when he humiliated her or tried to upset her, he would see her build a wall around herself. A wall made of ladylike courtesy.  
It infuriated him.  
It fascinated him.  
He’d never seen its like before. Not ever. Sansa Stark should’ve been a bland young maid. A wolf tamed in the lion’s den. And perhaps she was, but there was someone else there with her. Ramsay found his gaze drifting to where Reek sat at the far end of the hall. Was it possible Sansa was, like Reek, made of two beings? That Sansa Stark was a vessel, carrying someone else’s creation? Suddenly, much to his annoyance, he found that curiosity overriding his anger once more. The thought of her being of two minds was…interesting. What if one was timid, the other bold? And if it was so, which did he prefer? Which should he choose? The Sansa made of stone both fascinated him and infuriated him. Would the timid one be more like Reek? He didn’t need another one of those. But an obedient wife was a good wife. Wasn’t it? Ramsay turned and looked at her again. She was paying him no mind now, but he could see that the fire within her had remained.  
A thought came to him then.  
What was to say he had to choose?  
If she was going to play cold for now, he wouldn’t stop her. She could continue to hide behind her courtesy. Everyone had their limit. Ramsay couldn’t wait to discover what Sansa Stark’s limit was.

“Reek is over there.” Sansa looked over at Ramsay, surprised he had spoken to her again. She had thought she had angered him and pushed him too far. It had been fun, momentarily. Then Petyr’s voice had called out a warning. She needed him on her side, whether she liked it or not. So Sansa had looked towards where Ramsay had pointed.   
From such a distance, Theon looked like his old self again. Almost. He wore thick wool and leather and Sansa could just about make out the Kraken of House Greyjoy embroidered on his doublet. But he was still only a shade of his former self. He did not sit tall and proud, nor smile that secret smile that had always made her friend Jeyne giggle, nor did he join in the conversation with those around him. He stared down sullenly at his bowl of broth; drinking but never eating.  
If it weren’t Theon, she’d pity the man.  
_Why does he look so miserable? It is more than he deserves._  
“Why is he wearing proper clothes?” Sansa, try as she might, could not hide the bitterness in her voice.  
“What a surprise, Lady Sansa. It seems we are of the same mind concerning my father’s wish to turn my Reek back into a proper little lord.” Ramsay smiled grimly. They both sat and watched the sullen Reek-turned-Theon. “I’ll tell you what,” Her betrothed turned to her then, another smirk stretched across his face. “Theon is to give you away to me, seeing as he is the closest thing you have to family.” Sansa was not given a moment to protest, but nothing could stop Jon’s face coming to mind. “But I’ll make sure that, by our first morning as man and wife, he shall be Reek again.” Ramsay’s hand stretched out towards her and gently stroked her wrist. She did not flinch away. It was the first time Ramsay had touched her. It felt queer to see his pale skin against her own. His hands were rough and calloused, but she found that oddly reassuring. The hand that touched her belonged to a fighter and fighters had their uses. “How would you like that?” He asked.  
_“How would you like that? You wouldn’t? That’s alright, Ser Merryn and Ser Boros will hold you down.”  
_ “Nothing would please me more, my Lord.” Sansa forced herself to smile, but she couldn’t help but see Joffrey’s petulant smirk as Ramsay grinned. She did not allow herself to shudder. _By_ _our first morning as man and wife, he will be Reek again._ Why did that not please her as much as it should? 


	7. Don't Go And Leave Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's days are dull, but she tries to use them wisely. Myranda and Ramsay spend some time together. Theon makes an appearance which neither Reek or Sansa are pleased about.

Sansa’s days passed by, each one the same as the last. After breakfast she would spend time with Lady Walda, worming out as much information from her as possible. Sansa understood that Roose Bolton told his wife little and less, but the fat young woman had learnt to tell certain habits her husband had. She could tell which Lords he liked (as much as Roose Bolton could like anyone) and which he did not. He trusted none of them. After a while, Walda just repeated herself having run out of things to say concerning her husband. Once, bored of the same drivel, Sansa had asked Walda what she knew of her betrothed. She had begun with “I heard a rumour…” but Walda soon dismissed it, insisting that she did not listen to malicious gossip concerning Ramsay. If she had been any more stupid, Sansa was certain she would have told her it was the work of Stark loyalists wanting to bring about the destruction of House Bolton. Walda said no such thing, sadly, but it made Sansa wonder if the Lords the Bolton’s broke bread with were biding their time as she was. Roose they feared, that was for certain, but Ramsay…they seemed to show only cold courtesy to his face and boiling resentment when his back was turned.   
Sansa had made certain she paid more attention to how the Northern Lords received Ramsay. This led to her one day over breakfast suggesting that she and Ramsay should take a turn about the Godswood. The look on his face had confused her. For a moment she had glimpsed confusion and…was that fear? She couldn’t tell. He’d looked as if he were about to refuse when Lord Bolton had insisted it was a good idea. Sansa had suggested the idea loud enough for those on the nearest tables to hear. As she and Ramsay had strolled through the Godswood, arm in arm, Sansa had noticed it was busier there then it had been the past few days. Lords and their retainers would pass them regularly and mutter a greeting. They smiled at her and eyed Ramsay warily. _They think he’s going to hurt me_. It felt good to know they were concerned for her welfare, because it looked as though her true protector did not.  
Petyr had sent no message. Not even a note. Sansa was unsure whether he had received her message concerning Walda’s condition or not. With each passing day, Sansa felt more and more isolated from him. It frightened her. She knew Petyr would not abandon her, but she also knew that Littlefinger would if he thought her useless. She would be discarded and Littlefinger would not give her a second thought. Petyr wouldn’t let that happen though, would he?  
She only went to the Godswood with Ramsay that one time. He made for poor company there. Elsewhere, he was almost always charming and tried his best to provoke a painful memory. Pretending it did not hurt her was always entertaining. He would grow frustrated, then that look of curiosity would return and make her cheeks burn. Sansa had to confess that she rather liked it. But she only really saw him at mealtimes. She wasn’t sure what he did during the day. She never asked. Sansa would go to the Godswood every day and kneel before the Weirwood tree. There, she prayed only to hear Bran’s voice again. There was no point praying for anything else. The Gods never seemed to listen. Bran’s face did not appear again and the only whisper was the gentle breeze. Sansa would sit where her father used to, for a time. As it grew colder, she would wear fur pelts and sit beneath the Weirwood stroking the fur, closing her eyes and pretending it was Lady she felt beneath her fingertips.

He came inside her with a deafening roar. He pulled himself out and threw himself down beside her on the bed. Myranda lay still for a moment, enjoying the aching feeling between her legs. It was about the only enjoyment she had gotten out of it. _Could you’ve come any faster?_ She wanted to ask him. But she could tell he was in no mood for sarcasm. “Do you wish for me to stay, m’lord?” She asked, bored of the silence. Ramsay remained uncommunicative and stared up at the ceiling. Myranda couldn’t stop the frustrated sigh from passing her lips, but it didn’t seem to matter. Ramsay was deaf and blind to her. With that in mind, she stood up and began to clean herself off. Myranda threw on her dress and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” Ramsay snapped. Myranda span around, irritated. “Forgive me m’lord, I thought we were done here.” She snapped back.  
“Did I say we were done?”  
“You didn’t say we weren’t.” To her surprise, Ramsay’s head slumped back onto the bed. He didn’t argue. He didn’t even _scold_ her for her impudence. Myranda sighed again and walked over to him. He didn’t look at her. “What’s wrong m’lord? And don’t tell me you are fawning over your new betrothed.” She seethed. Ramsay arched an eyebrow and smiled. “She’s better than the last one.” He joked, laughing as Myranda thumped his thigh playfully. “Jealous?”  
“No!” She shot back, a little too quickly. Ramsay’s smile clouded over and his head hit the mattress again. _I have to try harder._ “What _is_ wrong, m’lord? You seem troubled.” She tried to sound concerned.  
“Reek. Marriage. Northern Lords and…” His voice trailed off and he turned away.  
“And…what?” Myranda probed, trying to coax him back around. It worked, sort of. “Why are you asking so many questions? How could a whore possibly understand?” He growled.  
“M’lord…”  
“Leave me.” He snapped. Myranda did.  
_I pushed it too far.  
_ She noticed the man just in time. Without breaking stride, they clasped hands, then Myranda carried on along the corridor, heading towards Sansa’s chambers.

With so much spare time, Reek was at a loss at what to do with himself. He seemed to wander the castle most of the time, avoiding as many people as possible. More often than not though, he found himself in the Godswood, on the same spot he had been crouching on when he and Master had heard the voice.   
Reek watched her from behind the trees.  
Theon thought of how much she had grown. The girl he had once known was almost a woman now. Maturity and grief were etched onto her face. He knew they would never leave, but it somehow made her _more_ beautiful. He remembered how, when he was a man, he had hoped Lord Stark would marry him to one of his daughter’s. Sansa had always been beautiful and it would have made him a true Stark.  
How foolish he’d been.  
_You’re Reek. You’ve always been Reek. You’ll always be Reek. Always. Forever. If Master heard you thinking these things, he’d take a toe or…or he’d do that…that thing again…_  
Reek whimpered at the thought.  
_I should go to her_ a small voice said. _I should go and tell her the truth and beg her forgiveness. She won’t forgive me…but…but maybe…  
_ Reek whined louder that time at the sound of Theon’s desperate plea.  
To his horror, Sansa’s eyes snapped open and locked with his from across the pool. Her blue eyes hardened as she realised who he was. “What do _you_ want?” She hissed loud enough for him to hear.  
_Your forgiveness_ Theon’s voice whispered.

How dare he be here, in these woods, where her father had sharpened the Starks ancestral sword? Where she and Jeyne had gossiped. Where Arya and Jon had played. Where Bran had climbed. Where Rickon had laughed. Where he and Robb had rested after training. How _dare_ he…  
Sansa continued to glare at him as he stepped out from behind the trees. Sansa had never truly dared to glare at someone she hated before. But Theon was different. He was already broken. He couldn’t hurt her. “Lady Sansa…” She realised it was the first time she’d heard Theon speak. Until now it had been Reek. Reek she could bear, but Theon…  
“May I speak with you, my Lady?” He wrung his hands together nervously.  
“I have nothing to say to you Theon. And I do not want to hear another word from your lips. I don’t even want to see you.” His eyes were downcast but she could still see the pain in them. It wasn’t enough. “I wonder what Ramsay would do to you if he knew you were speaking to me? Perhaps I’ll tell him. Then we’ll see.” She could not stop a smile coming to her lips as Theon morphed into Reek once more. “Much better.” She breathed.   
Sansa wrapped her cloak around her tighter and headed back towards the Keep. If she had chanced a glance over her shoulder, she would have seen Theon fall to his knees. She didn’t even hear the sobs that tore through him.  
He was nothing to her now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I want to do one more chapter before the wedding, but I'm not to sure what/who it should include. So I'm going to open it up to the floor. Whose twisted mind do you want to see into or more of? What should Sansa do with her last days of freedom? Who do you want to see her interact with? More Theon? More Ramsay? More Walda? More Roose? TELL ME! :)


	8. Player or Piece?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reek and Theon argue. Sansa receives a message and a warning.

It hurt too much to watch her as she walked away from him. Somewhere in his mind, Reek was attacking Theon with a force he didn’t know he possessed. _She’s going to tell Master! She’ll tell Master, then Master will be angry, and he’ll…a toe…or…or something worse…  
_ Reek doubled over on the cold earth, trembling and biting back cries of pain and fear. It was some small consolation that Theon was gone again, at least for now, but Reek knew it was too late anyway. Sansa had seen him. Sansa had spoken to him. Sansa had hated him.  
In that moment, Reek realised he hated her too.  
Theon might pity her and fear for her, but Reek did not feel what Theon felt. Reek did not remember _before_. There was no before for Reek, only Ramsay and the Dreadfort and his new home. And now this stranger had arrived and was going to tell Master. She was going to make _Reek_ hurt when it hadn’t even been him! It had been Theon. Stupid, disloyal, arrogant Theon. And now Reek would have to take the punishment for him and all because she would tell.  
As the pain subsided, replaced by an anger Reek had never felt before, he stood up on his shaking legs and began to follow Sansa’s tracks towards the Keep. Somewhere behind him, Reek heard someone whisper _Theon_. But Theon was gone and Reek did not turn around.  
_You have to know your name._

It was no warmer inside than it had been in the Godswood. Sansa couldn’t help but notice that, as she neared her chambers, the halls seemed to get colder. She hoped Myranda had remembered to put a fire on. When Sansa opened the door to her chambers, all thoughts of warmth evaporated. Fire was the least of her worries.  
When he heard the door open, Roose Bolton turned to face her and met her gaze. Sansa forced herself to smile, curtsey and mutter a greeting. Roose did not reply and continued his walk about the room. That was when Sansa noticed the note. Had she not been half-heartedly hoping for one, she may never have noticed it. A small corner of parchment peeked out beneath the pillows on her bed precariously. Whoever had left it there had not been expecting a visitor. Out of instinct, Sansa hurried towards it, then froze as Roose Bolton’s gaze settled on her again, an eyebrow raised, questioning her sudden movement. His thin lips stretched across his face in what could have been a smile. Sansa swallowed nervously. “These chambers are comfortable enough for the time being, I assume?” Roose Bolton’s voice was so quiet, Sansa wondered if he had spoken at all. She took her chances. “Yes my Lord. I am quite comfortable here.” She assured him, trying not to look at the note that seemed so obvious to her now and she feared Lord Bolton would see it from the other side of the bed.  
“Whose room was it? Before?” She wasn’t sure if he knew or if he was just trying to make polite conversation.  
“It was my brother Robb’s room, I think.” Sansa’s voice was colder than she had meant it to be. She knew she needed Roose Bolton to see her as a vulnerable girl, but seeing him in Robb’s room, asking her questions casually as though he had not been the one to thrust a knife through her brother’s heart, it angered her. As if to make things worse, Roose moved towards the bed and gently stroked Grey Wind’s fur. She moved forward then, instinct demanding that she snatch it from his grasp. She managed to steel herself just in time. “My son gave you this as an engagement present, did he not?”  
“Yes. It was most kind of him. The nights are cold here.” She pretended to absentmindedly play with one of the cushions, covering the corner of the note in the process. Roose’s cold gaze never left her and she could feel the hairs on her arms stand on end. “No. It was tasteless of him.” Roose insisted. Sansa looked up then, confused. Surely he had come here to torment her too. The confusion swept her away and she was suddenly fearful. She wasn’t ready to face a player like Roose. Ramsay was straight-forward, Theon was broken already and Walda was easier still. _None of them are players_ she realised. _Even Ramsay. That’s why he plays his little games, because he can never understand the games being played with him as a piece._  
Roose was a player though and under his gaze she felt like a piece again. _One slip and I am dead._  
“As you say my Lord.” She muttered meekly. If a piece was what he wanted, a piece she would pretend to be. Roose studied her for a moment. Sansa kept her eyes downcast, continuing to fiddle with the edge of the cushion. “I suppose you are wondering why I am here? It was rude of me to intrude, I know.”  
“You are the Warden of the North. You can go where you please my Lord.” Sansa assured, never meeting his gaze.  
“I am here to talk to you about your marriage to my son.” Just the words made her shudder. Hearing them said aloud seemed to make it all the more real. “You understand what this union means, don’t you?”  
“Yes, my Lord. Ramsay will become Lord of Winterfell and I his Lady.”  
“And you will become his.” Roose added. Sansa looked up then. The tone of his voice held a warning, one that made her all the more fearful of her upcoming wedding. She recalled when she had been told that she was to marry Lord Tyrion. She had been disgusted and distraught. She’d thought she would marry Ser Loras and have Highgarden and sons called Eddard and Bran. Yes, Sansa had despised the thought of marrying Tyrion. But had she been fearful? Not as much as she was at the prospect of belonging to Ramsay. _Life is not a song sweetling._  
“A wife is the property of her husband. Everything she owns becomes his, as does she.” Roose carried on, driving the nail in deep.  
“I understand, Lord Bolton. I am loyal to my beloved Ramsay…” The words sounded ridiculous to her now. Wrong. They were all wrong. They were not what Roose wanted to hear. He raised an eyebrow and smirked, as though he were _laughing_ at her. _We’re all liars here, and every one of us is better than you._  
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard someone call Ramsay their beloved, Lady Sansa. I admire your attempt.” If the man wasn’t so cold, she was sure he would have laughed. “Make no mistake. My Bastard is too cruel for his own good.” _It will get him killed_. The words remained unsaid, but they lingered in Sansa’s mind, alongside the image of Reek. What had Ramsay possibly done to turn the man that had betrayed her brother into _that?_ “No one could love him, so don’t even try to fool yourself into doing so. I do not need two lovebirds.” Roose moved around the bed then and came towards her, sure of stride. Sansa gasped as he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look into his icy gaze. “You know what I _do_ need?” Sansa forced a tear to roll down her cheek, though it didn’t take much persuasion.  
“Me to have a son, my Lord?” Roose continued to stare at her for a moment and Sansa feared she had answered wrong. Then the could-be smile returned and his grip on her chin loosened a little, though he did not take his hand away. Instead, he trailed his forefinger along her jawline, sending shivers up and down her spine. “You know what that means, don’t you?” He asked, still smiling.  
“Yes…Lord Tyrion and I never…but the Queen told me…” She spluttered, blushing at the thought. Of all the people she could speak of this with, Roose Bolton was not one of them. “Good. I doubt you’ll be fully prepared but in some ways perhaps that is for the best.” Sansa sighed when he finally took his hand away. Roose started for the door, turning just before Sansa could believe the ordeal was over. “Just do whatever it takes to please him.” All amusement was gone from Roose’s voice now. It was an order. He was commanding her. “Good day, Lady Sansa.” Just as he was about to leave, he paused. “Or should I call you daughter?” She could hear the amusement in his voice again.  
_I am not your daughter. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn, heir to Winterfell. The flayed man does not command the wolf.  
_ Sansa stood a little straighter. She remembered the clasp on her cloak and began to outline the silver direwolf head with her finger. Once his footsteps could no longer be heard from her chambers, Sansa turned back to the bed and pulled out the note, clasping it as though it were some precious jewel she did not want to lose. After a moment of treasuring it, she unfolded the note and drank in every word:

 _I have not forgotten you sweetling._  
_Enjoy your wedding._  
 _Do not accept my gift. Give it to your new husband instead._

Sansa frowned. What gift? A sudden memory of the necklace she had worn to Joffrey’s wedding came to mind.  
_Petyr’s gifts are always so thoughtful._  
It was her turn to be amused now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone who helped with this chapter! It was really fun reading all of your comments and I hope this chapter pleased you. Thanks Tommyginger for the awesomely awkward conversation idea, it was such fun to write XD


	9. Don't Lie to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to help you suffer less, not be so locked up in your thoughts, afraid of love and all under the sun.

The night before her wedding, the world fell quiet. Snow was the only thing that stirred outside. Sansa was as restless as the weather. No matter how hard she tried, she was unable to force her eyelids shut. Images flashed through her mind. She saw herself walking arm in arm with Theon through the Godswood, leading her towards Ramsay. Handing her over to him. She saw Ramsay’s hand gripping hers far too tightly, waiting until he heard the bones click. Then she saw them kneel before the Weirwood tree, on the spot where her father used to sit.  
_A wife is the property of her husband. Everything she owns becomes his, as does she._   
Sansa stood up, abandoning the slim hope of a peaceful night’s sleep. She didn’t even pick up Grey Wind’s fur as she padded over to the window and flung it open. The moon was blindingly bright and lit up the Northern moors so that they turned a brilliant white as the snow thickened. She stared out towards the Wall, hoping to see Jon come galloping across the moors to save her. To take her somewhere safe. _It would be good to see him again_. She would apologise for all the times she had turned away from him or refused to give him comfort when he was upset and he would forgive her. It sounded like a song. Sansa used to like songs.  
She turned away from the window and looked around the room. The fire had died out again but she did not notice the cold. Sitting down at the dressing table, Sansa was shocked to see how pale she was. The moonlight cast the only light and so her skin looked like silver, shining like polished metal. _I truly am made of steel now_. She wanted to smile but found that no smile could reach her lips. The silvery light of the moon made her seem ghostly now.   
A ghost among ghosts.  
She could stand it no longer.  
Picking up her cloak, pulling on her boots and lighting a candle, she headed out of her chambers to wherever her feet would take her. The rest of the castle was quiet. Waiting. Sansa met no one as she made her way outside. Not surprising really. She was sure it was late, probably past midnight. Outside, only the horses in their lines made a sound; shuffling and huddling closer together to keep warm. Tents had been set up for the soldiers. All the rooms that were habitable had gone to the Lords and the knights had taken refuge in the more sheltered ruins. Winterfell had become cramped over the past week as more and more Lords and soldiers arrived. Yesterday, a number of knights and soldiers had arrived bearing the sigil of House Arryn. That had been a welcome sight. Sansa had never seen so many people in Winterfell, not even when King Robert had come to visit.  
Now though, in the dead of night, Sansa was alone. An overwhelming sense of abandonment swept over her, and drove her towards the one part of Winterfell she knew she could never be lonely. The one place where she was not the last of the Starks.

It took a while for her to get all of the rubble out of the way. She was sure the sky had started to lighten and her candle had burned down to three quarters of its size. She would have to be quick. Looking over her shoulder, she saw no one. Winterfell was inhabited only by ghosts tonight.  
As she descended the slick steps, the air seemed to grow warmer. It welcomed her presence. Sansa had only been down here a few times as a child. It had always scared her and there were _rats_ down there. Old Nan used to say that at the very bottom of the crypts, the rats had grown as big as dogs and that they ate human flesh. Now though, such stories sounded ridiculous. She was not afraid of rats. She had seen too much to be afraid of such things. Besides, the darkness that surrounded her now felt like home.  
Sansa wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to remember how far down she had to go, but her heart took control and led her there. She passed the old Kings of Winter, whose faces had begun to crumble away, leaving them looking strange and disfigured. Sansa tried to remember their names, but she had never paid much attention to their tales. They had all seemed dull or brutal at the time. She realised now that their tales had just been the truth, and the ones she had listened to were the lies.  
The further along she went, the more names she remembered. Rickard…Brandon…Lyanna…  
Sansa stopped; her shattered heart pounding in her chest.  
She had not been sure if he would be here, considering everything that had happened since. But here he was. His face was stern and serious, but still held the loving father she remembered. Sansa collapsed to her knees as grief and pain ripped through her. In the darkness of the crypts, beneath her stone father, she began to weep. These were old tears. Tears that she had been holding back since the day Joffrey took her father’s head. They say you can only truly cry when you are amongst those who have shared and can understand your grief. Sansa felt that now. She rested her head on the base of her father’s likeness and felt a release. She did not have to hide here, but with that came painful memories and agonising guilt. “I’m so sorry.” She cried, her tears creating a puddle at Lord Stark’s feet. “If I hadn’t gone to the Queen…if I hadn’t told her…you might be alive…” She looked up at her father. He did not look back, just continued his stern gaze towards the wall opposite. That hurt more than she could say. He could never accept her forgiveness.  
Sansa stood up and wiped away her tears. Tears could not help her, nor could her stone father. She looked over at the places where her family’s bodies should rest. There were no likenesses there, only gaping holes, still waiting to be filled. Would they? Would the bones of her brothers and sister ever be found and brought to the place where they belonged? Sansa doubted it. The spaces would remain empty. The bones of the Bolton’s would _never_ rest amongst those of the Stark’s. Sansa looked back at her father and raised a hand to cup his rough, cold cheek. “I swear to you, father. I will avenge them. No matter what it takes.” Lord Stark looked neither proud, nor sad at her words. He just looked right on through her. But that no longer mattered.  
Sansa turned back the way she had come. The crypts seemed colder now, but she embraced it. It seeped into her bones. Her blood froze in her veins and when she emerged from the crypts, she was Alayne Stone once more.

With a lack of fingers, the clasp was a struggle. The edges seemed to dig in and bite at his fingers. After he dropped it for a fourth time, Lady Sansa ran out of patience. “Give it here, I’ll do it.” She said, not ungently. Theon watched her, feeling empty and pathetic. He couldn’t even put a clasp on properly. “Are you ready?” He asked her quietly. She fiddled with the cloak, pretending not to have heard him. He could hear the musicians Lord Baelish had sent strike up their instruments. Sansa continued to adjust the cloak, absentmindedly flattening every crease. “You…you look beautiful, Lady Sansa.” And she did. She looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. It felt as though they should say more, but Theon could think of nothing. Actually, he could think of a lot, but the words refused to come. So he lied, like he had been trained to. “Lord Ramsay will be a good husband. He’ll be kind to you, if you…”  
“Please him? Is that what you do Theon? Is that why he was kind enough to relieve you of your fingers?” The words did not drip with venom like they should have done. They were just cold. Her voice was indifferent. “Don’t lie to me Theon. I’ll know.” The icy voice sent a shiver down his spine. That shiver illuminated something inside of him. A mere spark. A mere spark that suddenly burst into flames. “I lie because I have to. You don’t understand, not yet. He’ll take a finger or a toe, or…” His voice trailed off and the red cloud cleared. Sansa did not look shocked. She didn’t even look angry. His words didn’t seem to make her feel anything. “A toe.” She said at last. “A finger. Are those what are most precious to you? You tell me lies because of that?” He flinched away from the cold. “I had to lie too. I had to say that my father, my mother and my brother were traitors. I had to declare my love for King Joffrey, all in the hope of saving my family. But they died anyway.” Theon knew where this was going and felt the anger begin to rise again. “Yet you stand there and tell me you have to lie because you are afraid to lose a _toe_? You killed two innocent young boys, a cripple and a six year old, my brothers, yet you are afraid to lose a finger? The Gods must have been making a jest when they decided what to do with you. Perhaps they simply rolled a dice.” She swept past him then and stood in front of the door, waiting for him to open it. Theon didn’t move. “Come on. Take my father’s place. It’s what you always wanted, wasn’t it? To be a Stark?”  
“I didn’t kill them.” He couldn’t raise his voice higher than a whisper, not with Reek clawing his way into his throat, desperately trying to pull Theon back. “What?” Sansa didn’t seem to hear him.  
“I didn’t…kill them.” He fought to make the words louder that time. As Sansa turned around, he felt Reek slowly start to lose his grip. She stared at him in disbelief, her icy exterior melting away before his eyes. “My brothers are alive?” She gasped. He could see her fighting tears. Theon only managed a nod before Reek somehow managed to regain control. “Come, my Lady. Lord Ramsay awaits you.” With what little strength remained, Reek pulled the reluctant bride out of the Keep and into the Godswood.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to be working on the Purge, but that trailer...seven hells!


	10. A Mummer's Farce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is left shaken after Theon's confession and she struggles to play her part. The wedding does not end how she'd hoped it would.

The mist weaved its way through the Godswood; its cold fingers caressing their clothes. Eventually, the fingers curled into a fist and soon enough only the yellow light of torches were left to guide them through the trees.  
Sansa noticed none of it.  
Had it not been for Reek’s arm linked through hers, she wouldn’t have known where to go. She may not have even moved at all.  
_They’re alive. Bran and Rickon are alive._  
It had disorientated her. Drunk on confusion, fear and hope, Sansa stumbled over a root, almost bringing Reek down with her. With a strength spurred on by fear, Reek dragged her back onto her feet. Sansa clutched his maimed gloved hand, forgetting herself. “Do they know? Do the Boltons know they are alive? Did you tell them?” Her voice rose so much that Reek was forced to hush her. Sansa could tell she would get nothing out of Reek, but she continued to cling to his arm all the same.  
All too soon, faces began to appear through the mist. A small part of her recognised the Northern Lords, but it was overrun by the fog that had invaded her mind. She flinched away from them, eyes wild, her hold on Reek’s arm the only thing preventing her from turning around and fleeing. When Ramsay called out, Sansa muffled her fearful cry until it was a mere whimper. “Who comes?” His voice cut through the mist like a knife. “Who comes before the Gods?” Sansa could just about make out his figure, yet it gave her no reassurance. He was simply a black shape amongst the mist. Faceless. Her instincts screamed danger. “Sansa of House Stark comes here to be wed. A woman grown and flowered, trueborn and noble, she comes to beg the blessings of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?” It was the sound of the mummer at her side that cut through the fog in her mind. She suddenly remembered where she was and why. Sansa refused to tremble, but her heart tremored in her chest. _Theon is playing his part, as must I._ “Me, Ramsay of House Bolton, heir to the Dreadfort. I claim her. Who gives her?” Mummers. All of them. The faces of the Northern Lords were nothing more than a masked chorus; a representation of the masses. “Theon of House Greyjoy, who was her father’s ward.” He was a mummer. A piece. As was Ramsay. As was she. Sansa looked about frantically, seeking out the player. Their puppeteer. Their Master. When she met his gaze, his eyes implored her to continue with his mummer’s farce. _No. I won’t. I don’t want to!_ The little girl inside her screamed. “Lady Sansa?” Theon’s voice tore her away from Roose’s gaze. “Lady Sansa, will you take this man?” Wrong. It was all wrong. Her part was supposed to give the Boltons Winterfell. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell. Wrong. It was so wrong. How could they not see? How could they not know? That was Bran’s title. He was alive. Bran was Lord of Winterfell…  
“Lady Sansa?” Sansa turned to him. Reek lied, but Theon’s eyes screamed and begged. The one truth amongst this mummer’s farce. _Don’t do it. It is not his title to take. Say it. Tell them all. Do not give them what they want.  
_ Don’t give them what they want.  
Sansa’s breathing grew ragged and she was sure she would faint. Theon’s hand tightened around hers. _Avenge them_. She had promised her father. _Avenge them_. If she told them all the truth, what would happen? Would she be killed too? _Avenge them_.  
She couldn’t do that from the grave.  
“I take this man.” Her voice was loud and clear and as cold as the Northern wind.   
The chorus sighed in perfect unison. The mummer at her side released her hand and stepped back and another took his place. Ramsay seized her hands, smothering them with his own. She could see anger in his eyes.   
She’d almost ruined their performance.  
He led her towards the Weirwood tree. It seemed to be laughing at them now, enjoying the folly; the comedic masks of the chorus, the mummer who had almost forgotten her lines. Sansa smiled back. Ramsay’s hand clawed her shoulder, forcing her to her knees. As the mummers prayed, Sansa planned. She still smiled when they stood up. Ramsay’s icy gaze never left hers. She watched his mask begin to slip. The puppeteer should have employed a better performer. One with more endurance. As the direwolf slid from her shoulders, the mummers mask slipped completely, revealing the horror beneath. As Ramsay slipped the flayed man about her, his look was a promising one. It did not promise to protect and defend. Quite the contrary. She would be punished for her poor performance. Sansa’s mask never faltered. A Shewolf does not need her mate to protect and defend her. Her teeth are just as sharp.     
Sansa did not show surprise as he lifted her in his arms; his grip around her was tight, possessive. Sansa simply smiled, armouring herself with courtesy. With no more songs to sing, the mummers made their exit.

The pain of sitting amongst her enemies may have been eased with more than two cups of wine, but Sansa wanted to keep a clear head. Images of Cersei on the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay filled her head with every sip she took, forcing her to settle the cup back down on the table. Her husband clearly did not share her lack of enthusiasm for drink. It did her a kindness really. The more he drank, the merrier he seemed to become, though Sansa wondered if it was their upcoming bedding that lightened his dead heart. Either way, she was pleased that she did not have to endure it in silence. She recalled her previous wedding; how Lord Tyrion had been so drunk he could barely stand. And how Joffrey had threatened her. Apart from that moment in the Godswood, Ramsay had shown no evil intent towards her so far. She answered his questions with courtesy. She spoke to him with courtesy. She was sure she could beat him to death with courtesy if she tried hard enough.  
She didn’t though. Instead, Sansa looked about the room, searching for the gift that was promised to her. Perhaps a hooded man in a shadowed corner, a dagger smiling at her, hooked through his belt. She saw no such gift. _I have not forgotten you sweetling.  
_ When Roose stood up and called for silence, Sansa settled back in her chair, chancing a quick glance at Lady Walda. Her fat face was lit up with a pleased smile. As Roose began to speak, Sansa turned and watched Ramsay, preparing herself for her entertainment to begin. Her eyes never left his face as Lord Bolton spoke of Stannis’ forces at Castle Black. She watched her husband join in the cheers of the Northmen. All it took was a look from Roose Bolton for the hall to be silent again. “And now for more good news.” He began. Sansa’s smile widened as Ramsay frowned. “My lady wife has just informed me that she is with child.” The hall was silent. So silent, in fact, that Sansa could hear the blood start to boil in Ramsay’s veins. His pale face flushed red with wine and irritation as he struggled to keep his mask in place. The Frey’s began cheering. Their fellow chorus members joined in, though they had missed their cue. Sansa turned away from her infuriated husband and smiled at Walda, giving an approving nod.  
Then the puppet master introduced new characters.  
A head tilt was their cue. The cheering rose as two huge pies were wheeled into the great hall, heading through the lines of tables, straight to the dais. “For you, Lady Sansa.” Roose said, looking down at her. “A gift from Lord Baelish.” Sansa felt her heart start to race as the cook held a knife towards her, ready for her hand to wield.  
“But Lord Bolton, as kind as this gift is, it is not mine to cut. Nor to taste. Lord Baelish means this grand gift to be given to my Lord husband. He shall be the one to cut it, and it is his decision whether or not I eat it. What’s mine is his, as am I.” Roose smiled approvingly and looked over at Ramsay.  
“I have got you a fine wife, Ramsay.” He said, sitting back down. Ramsay scowled in reply and staggered to his feet. Sansa watched as he drunkenly made his way around the table, clinging to the backs of the other chairs to keep his balance. The cook leapt out of the way as Ramsay snatched the knife out of his grasp. With a violence to rival Joffrey’s, Ramsay sliced one of the pies open with one savage stroke. There were no doves, but then that was not what Sansa hoped was inside. The chorus cheered again as a portion of the pie was cut and handed to Ramsay. Had he been the kindly man that Theon had promised, he would have offered the first slice to his wife. But her husband was no such man. Instead, he turned and wolfed down the slice as though to spite her. Sansa did not need to force a smile.   
That was when all courtesy left her. She no longer wore her armour. The battle had been fought and won. As though to make mockery of her last kill, Sansa held his goblet up and filled it. “That pie looks dry, my Lord. A sip of wine will wash it down.” An uneasy hush settled over the hall. No doubt the Northern Lords had gotten word of the events of King Joffrey’s murder. But Ramsay, with a mouth full of pie and a head full of wine, did not seem to notice the sudden silence. He snatched the goblet away from her, sloshing half its contents over the table, he swallowed it all in one. Then Sansa waited.  
And waited.  
The uneasy hush quickly evolved into an expectant one. Ramsay continued to polish his plate. Sansa continued to wait.   
Her heart sank as the final crumb was lifted to his mouth. He smiled at her then. _Do not accept my gift. Give it to your new husband instead._ What could Petyr have possibly meant if not poison? Perhaps it needed more time to take effect? Panic seized her as she realised she had no time left. Ramsay gave her one final smirk before turning to face the chorus, his mask in place once more. “My Lords, despite what my Lady wife says, the pie is well done. You all must continue to make merry. Eat. Drink. Let no crumb go to waste! Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Ramsay turned back to face Sansa “I have a bedding to prepare for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I read somewhere that it was possible that Petyr would do the pie thing. Seems pretty cool, even though I miss Lord Manderly. Petyr has got one reason to hate the Frey's, but that reason has driven him from day one. Only Cat.


	11. Let Me Under Your Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mouth thumping, it's late.  
> Dead silence, black space.  
> I've been patient for too long,  
> I just can't wait to get under your skin.

Sansa quickly abandoned her idea of keeping a clear head. She ordered another cup of wine, downed it, then held it up so it could be refilled. She watched her husband as he staggered down the aisle, roaring for the doors to be opened. No one instructed her to follow him so she did not. The cupbearer scarcely left her side. _My previous husband would be proud if he saw me now._ She found herself suddenly longing for it to be Tyrion she was sharing a bed with. She would gladly lose her maidenhead to him now, after she had seen what a true monster looked like.  
_At least it isn’t Joffrey_. That was some small comfort, and she clung to it as tightly as she was clinging to her cup. Some of the Northern Lords looked up at her with pity in their eyes; the foolish little girl who had dreamed for her monster to be struck down before he could do her harm. How stupid she was. The eyes on her reminded her of what she was. _I thought I had learnt my lesson. I thought I was stronger, but I’m still the stupid little girl with stupid dreams that never learns. It was not I who was strong, it was Petyr…  
_ Petyr.  
She didn’t even want to think about Petyr.  
Music and merriment began to fill the room with its stench. It assaulted Sansa’s nostrils and made her want to retch. People nearer the back started dancing and it slowly moved its way forward. Some Lords even looked towards her, wondering if they should ask to dance. Sansa hoped they would not. She had not danced in a long while and her mind was already so murky from the wine she doubted she’d be able to walk straight, let alone dance. Mychel Redfort was the first to summon up the courage. “Might I have the honour of dancing with you, my Lady?” He called from beneath the dais. Sansa willed herself to smile, but her jaws felt as stiff as wood, her teeth locked together. She managed nothing more than a shake of her head. Mychel smiled sadly, bowed, then abandoned her there. Her rejection seemed to deter everyone else. Sansa was left alone on the dais, with only Lord and Lady Bolton for company. None of them seemed to feel like stirring up a conversation.  
After a moment, Sansa felt a shiver go down her spine. The hairs on her neck stood on end as she felt new gazes fall on her. They had no intention of dancing, that she was certain of. Sansa looked around, seeking out the predators. A gang of men were watching her. She had seen them a few times before; they seemed to be good friends of her new husband. They were no friends of hers though, their looks said it all. Suddenly, someone was pushed out of the gang. Reek started towards her. Head down. Eyes to the floor. She could see by his stuttering pace that he had also tried to drink the night away. They both knew it had been a false hope.   
Sansa did not look at him when he stopped next to her chair. She settled the empty cup back on the table, the wine churning in her stomach at every movement. “Lady Sansa, come. It is time you did your duty.” _I’m at a loss to explain what I’ve been doing so far_ she would have said, had her courage not fled her. She stood and started to follow him out of the hall. If the Lords saw her leave, she did not notice. It took all her concentration just to walk. She thanked the Gods for Reek’s missing toes then. Her feet felt like lead and every step was torture. Had he been left with able feet, she wouldn’t have been able to keep up.  
As they crossed the snow-carpeted courtyard, Sansa realised they were being followed. She had to stop to turn. Ramsay’s friends were close behind and getting closer still. “Come, my lady.” Reek urged. Sansa needed no secondary instruction. She suddenly felt as though she were being herded; like a lamb led to the slaughter. “Why are they here?” She asked him, refraining from reaching out and clutching his arm. He did not reply. The men began a chorus of laughter and bawdy jokes. One sang ‘The Northman’s Daughter’. Another claimed he would receive a piece of the bloodied bedsheet.   
_Bloodied bedsheet?  
_ Everything Cersei and her mother had taught her about this night had fled her mind the moment Theon had made his confession. She couldn’t remember if blood was the norm. _I’m not afraid of the pain, not after what Joffrey’s done to me_.  
She was afraid though. She was terrified.  
_I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave._  
But she wasn’t a Stark anymore. The cloak that was draped about her shoulders seemed to grow heavier, reminding her of the name she now bore.  

When they entered, Ramsay was sat beside the hearth. Despite the fire, the room was still cold. He did not look up when they entered. “Leave us lads.” Ramsay was unusually quiet. Still he did not acknowledge them with his cold gaze. The sigh of relief caught in her throat. The predators may have gone, but they had just delivered her into the jaws of their Alpha. “Reek. Stay.” He barked. Sansa did not need to look to know Reek had obeyed. She flinched as the door slammed shut. Still Ramsay did not move. She wanted him to stand up, roar at her, threaten her. Throw her on the bed and be done with it.  
But she knew that tonight was not about what _she_ wanted.  
_Save yourself some pain girl, give him what he wants._  
“Did the feast not go as you had planned?” Ramsay’s voice cut through the silence as savagely as he had cut through the pie. “Was your gift from Lord Baelish a disappointment?” The bitterness of it made her tremble. Sansa responded the only way she remembered how. “The feast pleased me greatly, my Lord. Lord Baelish was most generous, as was your father. I…” The sight of his hands clenching around the arms of the chair made her falter. “I am so grateful.” A lie. A feeble lie as transparent as glass. “Such a courteous thing aren’t you? A fragile bird singing her little songs to please.” He spat.  
“Courtesy is a lady’s armour, my Lord.” Her own words frightened her. They were too bold. Yet they seemed to amuse him. “Really? Well, as your husband,” He stood up and moved towards her. “I command you to take it off.” He did not smile. His eyes pierced hers, then they moved down. Further and further, he undressed her with his eyes. She could feel him crawling under her skin. It was not the cold room that caused the hairs on her arms to stand on end. “My Lord, I...I don’t understand.” She stuttered. Did he mean for her to undress? His look told her nothing. “Take off your armour.” He hissed. He brought his gaze up to meet hers again. She could feel him slipping his way into her bloodstream, invading her body. And all with a look.  
Ramsay took another step towards her. Instinctively, she tried to take a step back. A yelp escaped her as a hand lashed out and took hold of her arm. “I want to see her.” He growled.  
“See who? Please, my Lord. I don’t understand!” She couldn’t look at him. Not those eyes. Those eyes that pierced and invaded her very being. Searching. Peeling her back layer by layer. “You are not who you pretend to be, Sansa Stark. So sweet. So innocent. Yet you aren’t alone. Like Reek. I can see it. I can always see it. Don’t try to hide her from me.” Sansa looked over at Reek, who was all she could see. There was no Theon there. “Don’t worry wife, I’ve remembered my promise. Undress and get on the bed while I see to Theon.” He commanded so nonchalantly, releasing her arm as suddenly as he had taken hold of it. She could feel her knees start to tremble, but his focus was no longer on her. She turned away from him and started to undress, desperately clawing at the laces of her wedding gown. It had been beautiful, in a simple sort of way. Smooth grey silk that had shimmered, even in the snow. Yet once it was on the floor it was nothing more than a feeble pile of fabric, its beauty gone. With nothing to hold it up, it could have been just a used dishcloth with a strange shimmer.  
Sansa moved over to the bed, not checking to see how Ramsay was preparing Reek. She knew he was Reek now. Theon was nowhere in sight. Yet her husband would be displeased if she ruined his fun. “Close your eyes, Lady Sansa. I want your wedding gift to be a surprise.” She did as he bid, trying to drown out Reek’s whimpers by keeping her breath even and steady. It was peaceful in her self-made darkness. When Ramsay ordered her out of it, she opened her eyes with the greatest reluctance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bloody bedding scene was supposed to be one chapter. It is already four pages long and it's still nowhere close to the end. This chapter isn't even a warm up of what's to come.


	12. Transitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the moon gives me permission   
> and I enter through her eyes,  
> She's losing her virginity  
> And all her will to compromise.  
> I didn't want to hurt you baby  
> I didn't want to hurt you,  
> I didn't want to hurt you  
> But you're pretty when you cry

And immediately closed them again.  
“No Lady Sansa. Don’t be ungrateful. I’m glad your armour is gone, but I am your husband and you will do as I command.” So she did.   
She was not certain what it was _supposed_ to look like, but she knew it wasn’t this. The gash was a mixture of pink and grey skin, pinched together; a patchwork job. A darning of the flesh. A poor attempt to cover what was missing. The wine stirred in her belly once again, threatening to make its own appearance. “Do you like it Lady Sansa? Is that enough justice for you? I did it myself. You might not have been aware, but Theon was awfully fond of his little toy. Weren’t you Theon?” Ramsay’s mouth twisted into the cruellest smirk she had ever witnessed as Reek began to chant.  
“Not Theon. Reek, it rhymes with weak, peek and sneak. Good Reek. Loyal Reek. I’ve always been your Reek Master. It rhymes with meek. Please…” His words were lost as Ramsay grabbed him by the matted curls, sinking his pale fingers through them and yanking his head back. “Lady wife, open your legs. Theon wants a look, don’t you?”  
“Not Theon! Reek!” Reek insisted, his limbs trembling wildly. Sansa choked back a sob as she spread her legs out for them to see. Ramsay tilted his head, staring, licking his lips. She closed her eyes and felt the salty tears burn her cheeks. “Did I say you could close your eyes?” She heard him growl.  
“N…no…my lord. I’m s…sorry…my lord.” Sansa sobbed. This was too much. Everything. The sight of Theon. The way her husband looked at her. She couldn’t take it. “Want to prove to me Theon is truly gone, Reek?” She heard Ramsay whisper. Reek’s head bobbed up and down wildly. Sansa cried out as Reek was thrown onto the mattress. His hair tickled her inner thighs and she could feel his foul breath stir the hair between her legs. _Theon._ She wanted to say his name. Scream it at him. Make him realise what he was doing. Her brother had considered him as his own brother. _My father raised you as if you were his own son_ she thought as she felt his hair brush her leg again.  
The sickening thoughts clouded her mind. She didn’t even realise Ramsay’s intentions until the creature between her legs screamed in agony. Sansa looked up. Her breath caught in her throat as Ramsay thrust into Reek again. She couldn’t even cry out. Her husband was naked now. His smooth skin as pale as her own. Muscles casting shadows across his body The way he pushed into Reek was so savage and brutal, she was sure it would tear him apart. Reek shrieked every time he was rammed into. And from…from…into… _there…  
Gods. Will he do that to me?  
_ She’d never meant for this…she hadn’t expected Ramsay to do this…she didn’t know anyone could even think about doing such things.  
Pleasing Ramsay was no longer a concern. The only thing that filled her mind now was a need to escape. She couldn’t fight. Ramsay was too strong and she was just a weak little songbird with only courtesy to shield her. It would be of no use now. Taken over by an animal instinct, Sansa flew from the bed, aiming for the only possible escape. The door wasn’t far away. She could make it.  
She could’ve, had it not been for the wine and the monster who loved a hunt.  
Sansa staggered pitifully towards the door, arms outstretched. He waited until she had almost made it, allowing her to hope before slamming into her. “You just couldn’t wait could you? Highborn maids are always used to getting whatever they want, when they want it. Or so I’ve heard. Did you grow jealous of my Reek?”  
She didn’t know what made her do it. The act was beyond her control. A reflex. An instinct. The back of her hand met his cheek with a heart-stopping thwack. The room seemed to freeze over. Ramsay clutched his cheek, stunned into silence. Sansa tried to struggle her way free, but his free arm was pushed up against her throat. When he turned back to face her, he was smiling. “Found you.” He sang. Breathing ragged, desperate eyes twitched, searching for anything. Anything other than those two chips of ice. If she looked into them, the ice would crack and the cold current would consume her, filling her lungs with its icy breath. Her arms hung freely, so she used them. The only weapon at her disposal now was her body. _Tears aren’t a woman’s only weapon_. No. No they were not.   
Clawing, biting, striking, kicking. Ramsay’s blood grew hotter with every hit. He took another step closer, the thing he had begun to build inside Reek was pressed up against her bare stomach. The feel of it, wet, hard and warm on her skin, forced her into further panic. Claws dug in until the skin gave way beneath it, blood welling in the fresh grooves. Ramsay laughed. “Go on love, keep fighting.” He cooed, pressing harder against her, his arm still crushing her throat, enjoying the panicked gasps and rolling eyes.  
He pushed her right to the edge. Blackness awaited her, slowly edging its way around her, ready to swallow her up. It clouded the nightmare that stood before her. Only the eyes skewered through the darkness. Hands clutched weakly to the arm that had taken her breath away. Legs twitched and flinched; a poor attempt to do him harm.  
Suddenly, the darkness lifted.  
Air flooded into her lungs, gushing down her throat so fast it hurt. So overcome by the sweet bliss of breathing, his movement became unimportant. A fly in the room. Tilting her head back, gasping for more of the sweet relief. She never even saw him pounce.  
The shock was worse than the pain, at first. She felt him thrust his way inside her, forcing himself deeper. A scream escaped her lips as she felt something within her shred and tear. Was it her courage that had broken? Her pride? Her dignity? The young girl inside her screamed and fought as the blood began to slide along her thighs; innocence mingled with his tainted seed. Ramsay caught a rhythm then, pumping into her rough and fast as he had done with Reek. The wood from the door was rough and unpolished. Splinters of wood lodged themselves into the delicate skin of her back as she was humped against it. She dared not open her eyes and he allowed it. A mercy. Gratitude filled her as he did.   
The pain did not subside. It worsened with every thrust; the soft, untouched tissue of her insides being rubbed raw by his savage stabs. The salt from her tears burned her eyes and soft, pale cheeks. “I was going to be merciful. I was going to have Reek get you ready for me. That would have made this easier for you, but you misbehaved, didn’t you?” The answer was an agonised wail that echoed through the door. Laughter called back. The men were still out there, listening as she was thrust against the door. “Who are you?” He asked, his voice low and husky as he tried to hold himself back. “Who are you really?” She knew the name he wanted. Truly wanted. If it passed her lips, she was lost to him. He would own every part of her being. Her body, her mind and…  
The pain. The scent of blood and sweat. The grinding of his teeth as he stilled and stiffened inside her, unable to hold back any longer. His trembling hands hoisting her legs up higher. His fingers bruising the soft skin of her bloodied thighs.  
“Alayne.” It was a mere tremor of the lips that brought her last shield crashing down.  
With nothing left to hide from him, she opened her eyes. Red and sore as they were, they did nothing to hinder her vision. “My sweet wife. Is that who she is?” He asked softly. Too softly. She knew his concern was insincere. Sansa bit back a cry of pain as he pulled out of her, not ungently, and lowered her so she stood on the floor. Her legs were unsteady and she collapsed against him. A small part of her knew it wasn’t just down to her weak limbs. She was grateful that the pain had stopped, though her insides still burned. There was a gut-wrenching shame as her face buried into his shoulder; her tears mixed with the sweat that slickened his skin. Sobs tore through her, and it hurt when she felt beholden for his strong arms as they enclosed her. Trapped her. He buried a hand in her hair, petting her. Clutching her face to his shoulder. “Hush now wife, I know it was not you who fought me. It was her fault, wasn’t it? Alayne made you do those things, didn’t she? Those horrible things. You’d never hit your lord husband, would you Sansa?” Her head shook frantically, denying her other self as much as she was denying her wish to harm him. “Good girl. You just want to please me, don’t you Sansa?” He cooed. Sansa could smell the threat. “Yes…yes my lord, I just want to please you…only you…please…” He smiled at that. Smiled and smiled. Pleased with his newest creation. “I know love, I know. But we have our duties to see to first, don’t we?” His soft tone made her tremble in his embrace. “The Northern Lords will be expecting a bloodied sheet, and I promised my friend Skinner a scrap of it.” A celebratory _whoop_ sounded from beyond the door. “We mustn’t disappoint, must we?”  
“No, my lord husband.” She was a good girl and always remembered her courtesies.  
“Very good. I’m going to need help preparing first though. Who should help me? You or Reek?” Ramsay asked, unwrapping her and taking a small step back, revealing Reek. She’d forgotten about him.   
The meaning of Ramsay’s words were lost on her. Nothing else mattered except that she had to make a choice, a choice that would either please him or cause her more pain.  
_Save yourself some pain girl, and give him what he wants_.  
Aware of the blood trickling down her thighs and the bruises that darkened across the contours of her body, Sansa couldn’t find it within herself to look at Reek. She was almost as afraid of seeing Theon resurfacing as she was Alayne.  
The answer was clear anyway.  
“I will help you, my lord husband.” Her voice was small and meek, yet it seemed to please Ramsay.  
“There’s a good wife.” He took a step closer to her again. A fresh tear seared her cheek. Ramsay cupped her face in his gentle, cruel hand. “You’re so pretty when you cry, Lady Sansa.” He said fondly.  
_You’re more pretty when you smile and laugh_.  
There was a difference between monsters, she realised. Like humans, each was different. Joffrey had wanted lies. Ramsay wanted truths. He wanted all that she was, all that she knew. He wanted to consume her.  
Sansa followed his hand as he pulled it away, keening for the soft touch. Ramsay smirked and turned his back on her. Panic seized her, overriding all other thoughts. He was leaving her. Abandoning her. Like a mare bonded to its rider, a bitch loyal to its master, she followed him. “Stay, Sansa.” The command was a shock, but the fact that her feet froze mid-step hit her harder. “Good girl.” He cooed. Her heart soared, uncontrolled, at the praise. “Don’t I have a well behaved wife, Reek?”  
“Yes master.” The pet answered without hesitation. The humiliation of him seeing her like this hurt, but the thought of what Ramsay would do if she tried to cover herself was too awful to consider. “Kneel, Lady Sansa.” She did, the rough wooden floors causing more splinters to bite into her knees. “Crawl towards me.” She obeyed without question. His eyes were all she wanted to look at now, though his nakedness was what caused her to want to cower. If she lowered her eyes…  
The wine sloshed sickeningly inside of her.  
“You don’t mind if Reek watches, do you wife? He’s something of an expert at this. Now. Maybe he’ll give you lessons after. The first time is always hardest, so I will be gentle.” His voice was soft and kind.  
“Thank you for your mercy, my lord.” She couldn’t tear his eyes away from him, aware of his…the _thing_ that was so close to her face. Vomit threatened to force its way up her throat. “Now, wife, open your mouth.” Ramsay commanded.  
Alayne reeled away from him.  
Ramsay had anticipated it. “Thought we had got rid of you, Alayne.” He growled, twisting his fingers into her hair and dragging her closer. “Do you know what happens to people who refuse me?” The grip tightened as he yanked her head around to look at Reek. Sansa whimpered. She hadn’t meant to move away, but Alayne had fought back. _You’re a Stark, you can’t let him treat you like this_ She had said, her voice as hard as stone. “I’m sorry…please, my lord…mercy…please?” Sansa squeaked, tears streamed down her face now as her head began to pound from his tight hold. He shoved her to the ground. “On your knees. Mouth open. If I feel a tooth, I’ll remove it.” He snarled. “Do it.” Sansa opened her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut so she could not see it. Nothing could conceal the taste though. First came the metallic tang of her maidenhood. It made the inside of her cheeks dry out as it invaded her mouth. Deeper and deeper he went. Sansa was sure he meant to suffocate her with it. Then Ramsay pulled out again. Next came the flavour of his seed and sweat from their first time. It was salty and made her want to swallow, to try and wet her mouth. With him inside her, it was unfeasible. “Suck.” He growled. Despite the dryness, she forced herself into it. What remained of the young girl slowly faded away. She could almost see her in her mind’s eye, weeping and wailing. _What has become of me?_  
Ramsay gradually began to stiffen again, and as he did, his thrusts grew more violent. He had said he would be gentle, but that was before she had tried to disobey. The fault lay with her alone _. No. Not me. Alayne_. Yes, it was Alayne’s fault, and now Sansa was paying for it.  
He clutched her hair, forcing her to move in time with him. He pushed himself deeper into her mouth, his taste lingering in her throat. He groaned and gasped in pleasure, but Sansa barely heard him. She was focused, trying desperately hard, striving not to…  
The wine met him inside her and she pulled back to make way for it.  
It poured from her mouth as she coughed and heaved, grateful for the acidic taste that washed him from her tongue; cleansing her teeth, cheeks and throat. She revelled in the clean feeling as she stared down at the purple mess.  
A cold hand curled itself around her neck. He hoisted her up by the neck and waist and suddenly she was sailing through the air, landing on a heap on the bed. The journey stirred up more of her stomach and she retched into the sheets, wiping her mouth lazily. Fatigue was beginning to take its hold. The nights events had worn her down; mind, body and soul.  
But Ramsay wasn’t done with her yet.  
He flipped her onto her back, kneeling over her, one leg putting pressure between her legs, making her cry out with pain. “Bad wife. Did you not like the taste of my cock, _m’lady_? Did you feel ashamed of yourself, _m’lady_? Do you not want to be my little whore, _m’lady_?” He mocked, though there was little humour in his voice. Alayne’s stony glare said it all. The first blow loosened a tooth. The second split her lip.  
_Leave her face. I like her pretty.  
_ The blows kept coming until she felt him stiffen again.   
His second time inside her was no less painful than the first, and it lasted longer. “The first time I saw you in the courtyard,” He panted into her ear. “I saw it. A flash of defiance. I swore then that I would teach you a lesson. You will never, ever defy me.” Sansa cried out as his pace quickened and he reached out to touch her face. “Your skin was pale. Delicate. Fragile. Porcelain. I couldn’t wait to break it.” He murmured. She whimpered as his fingers drifted down to her collar bone and dug in. Hard. She could feel the bruise start to form the moment he took his hand away. His hand moved down towards her own, twisting his fingers through hers, clutching them as though to prevent them from escaping. “Your fingers. So long and elegant, and frail.” His grip on her hand tightened. It was her right hand. “Please, my lord, mercy…please…” As she heard the first finger snap, she screamed. Sansa turned her face away so she could not see the sneer or those eyes that bore into hers as though they were open doors, allowing him into her very soul. Pain shook her arm as another finger gave way beneath the pressure. “Your beautiful neck, graceful and _so_ frangible.” His hand untwined from her broken fingers and moved up towards her neck.   
_Please…oh please…do it…_   
He cupped it. Cradled it. She felt his breath ghost across the fragile skin. “Not now love. We must do our duty.” He murmured into her ear. Soft kisses rained down on her skin; so gentle, she wondered if she was imagining them. Sansa did not turn to face him, but she tried to stretch her neck up to meet his lips. It was a kindness. She was grateful for the kindness. Ramsay changed his rhythm then, slowing it slightly, as though he had suddenly remembered he had broken her only recently. Her fingers throbbed and pulsed. But she felt something new. Something more. A burning in the pit of her stomach. It forced her hips upwards clumsily to meet him. Ramsay gasped along with her. “Yes…that’s it…” He encouraged, planting another kiss. “Now who are you?”  
“Sansa.” She whispered timidly.  
“And who am I?”  
“Ramsay.” The thrusting became hard and savage again. It was not enough. “My lord, my husband, my sweet, sweet lord.” She cried, desperately trying to regain the rhythm they had had before.   
“And?” He probed. The words passed her lips, but they were not hers. They were Ramsay’s. They were what he longed to hear. They were what she knew would make him happy. “Master.” She murmured. He stiffened inside her then and spilled his seed for the second time.  
_I am his now._

Despite how much she longed for it, sleep would not come. Her broken fingers throbbed and now that the strange burning in her stomach had gone, there was nothing to dull it. Tears fell and she had to muffle a cry each time she tried to move them. Beside her, Ramsay slept. In sleep, he seemed the same as any man. She forbade herself from thinking anything else. _He would be good to me if I didn’t fight him. It is my fault_.  
No. Not hers. Alayne’s.  
Sansa turned once more, careful not to disturb her mangled hand. Outside, the sky had begun to lighten and she could make out the room around her. But there was only one thing that kept her attention. Reek was awake too. Awake, and watching her. There was no pity in his eyes, only understanding. That helped a little. Sansa opened her mouth to say the words, but he pressed a finger to his lips, silencing her. In the darkness, she could have sworn she’d seen his mouth twitch into a sad smile. He settled down onto a fur rug, watching her all the while. An absurd sensation flooded over her then. She felt _safe_. In the darkness, she heard Reek begin to whisper. A song. A chant. It made no matter. The sound of his voice forced her eyelids to droop. As sleep began to edge its way closer, the words Reek spoke became clearer.  
_Alayne, Alayne. It rhymes with pain._

Myranda rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The screams had kept her awake until early morning, and she’d had to be up early to make the tea too, lest anyone saw her. Myranda added the mint and allowed it to simmer a little longer before pouring it into a cup and setting it down onto the tray beside the plate of boiled eggs, fresh baked bread and bacon. A simple meal, but she suspected the Lady would not be up to eating much. “Is it ready?” The sound of his voice made her start and she span around.  
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.” She snapped.  
“You should have heard me coming. If anyone knew what you were doing in here, things could get a little tricky for you.” He laughed, the threat so at ease on his tongue.  
“It was not I who requested this drink be made.” Myranda snarled.  
“Nor I.” He growled back.  
“Well then it shouldn’t be me who gets punished for it.”  
“Myranda, you know that is not how the game is played. You agreed to this. You are his piece on the board now.” He stepped aside, clearing the way for her to leave. “Now go. Lady Sansa will be wanting her breakfast soon.”    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. This chapter is crazy long. I'm sorry, but I just needed to get it done. Over with. My poor Sansa...


	13. When You Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've been crying out for forever  
> But forever's come and gone,  
> You keep begging for forgiveness  
> But you don't think you've done wrong,  
> You've been crying out for forever  
> Forever's come and gone,  
> My bleeding hands, my shaking head.

Reek’s eyes snapped open when he heard someone enter the bedchamber. Already alert, awaiting an attack or something that might hurt, he remained where he was on the rug; muscles clenched, ready to spring into action. “You’ll knock in future.” He heard his Master growl. Reek relaxed a bit, safe in the knowledge that his Master had woken too. He didn’t even check to see if Sansa was awake. He didn’t dare. Not with Master around. Reek must only have eyes for Master. “Forgive me, m’lord, but your father wishes to speak with you at once.” The sound of Myranda’s biting voice sent a shiver down Reek’s spine, as it always did.  
“Fine. Reek, bring me some clothes.” He leapt into action, crawling across the floor at a high pace, only half aware of his nakedness. He sensed Myranda was struggling to hold back laughter. Reek would have felt shame if he cared at all about what she thought, but he didn’t. Only what Master cared was important to Reek.  
He gathered what clothes he could find; stuffing them into his ruined mouth. Master had not given him permission to use his hands so he would not. “What’s that?” He heard Master ask. Reek looked up to check if he had been the one that was addressed. Thankfully it was not. He doubted he’d be able to pick up the clothes again if he had to open his mouth. “Breakfast for Lady Sansa.” Myranda replied, setting the tray down on the table whilst Reek hurried over to his Master, longing to relieve his mouth of its cargo. Pain shot through his gums as what teeth remained to him complained about the heavy load. “For the Gods’ sake Reek, stand up!” Ramsay snapped.  
“Sorry M…master…forgive me.” Reek whined, standing up on shaky legs. He had a better view from up there. He could see the seemingly small, fragile figure wrapped amongst the bloodied sheets. His Master had also turned his attention that way. He smiled. Slowly, Ramsay got onto all fours and moved across the bed; the muscles in his broad shoulders rippling as he crouched over his sleeping prey, pinning her down beneath him. “Wakey wakey Lady Wife.” He heard Ramsay whisper. Theon winced as Sansa cried out, the anguish soon muffled as Ramsay plunged his tongue into her mouth; gently biting, kissing savagely. “Good morning.” He muttered when he pulled away, leaving Sansa out of breath, panicked. Theon withered away as Ramsay’s gaze turned back to Reek once more. “You will stay here Reek. When my wife has finished her breakfast, you will bathe her and see to it that she is presentable for supper tonight.” His Master ordered, his eyes cold and challenging. Reek didn’t look away. If I look away, he’ll know. He’ll see. He always sees. “Yes Master.”  
“Good pet.” Ramsay praised, climbing off the bed and starting to dress. “Up!” He snapped to his wife. Sansa sat up, crying out when she neglected her broken fingers. “My love, do your fingers hurt? Shouldn’t have trapped them in that door then should you? Stupid wife.” Ramsay cooed.  
“Yes my lord. I was stupid. Please, forgive me.” Sansa muttered, climbing out of the bed, clutching her wrecked hand.   
“Call for the Maester if needs be Reek.” Ramsay didn’t even look at his wife as he yanked the stained sheets off of the bed. She looked worse in daylight. Bruises covered her body. Her knees were bloodied and scratched from where she’d knelt on the floor. Her lip was split, leaving a trail of dried blood down her chin. Marks decorated her neck from where Ramsay had sucked at the fragile flesh. And between her legs, the hair was stained red, as were her now-purple thighs.   
Her eyes were the worst of it. The deep blue was empty; her spirit crushed. The wolf staggered away from her. Limping. Whining. He could almost see it in his mind. What had been her name? Lady? Yes, that was it. The one that had been killed on the journey South. He could see her now though, clear as day. Crying in pain, howling for her brothers and the sister that never came.  
Broken. Broken as Theon.  
Reek heard the door close as Ramsay left. Heard the cheers of his men as they caught a glimpse of the bloodied sheet. “Boys, this night I tamed a wolf!” Ramsay laughed, provoking more cheers. Reek watched Sansa flinch at the words. “Here, m’lady.” Myranda held out a robe that Sansa stepped into almost eagerly, yearning to cover herself. Once the robe was fastened, only her neck remained exposed. He watched Myranda lead her to the table with a kindness he didn’t know she possessed. Shoving a cup of hot tea into Lady Sansa’s hands, Myranda rounded on Reek. “Shouldn’t you be getting a bath ready? Go and get the tub!” She barked, sending Reek scuttling from the room.  
The sheets landed on the desk with a thud. “As promised father.” Ramsay grinned. Roose pushed them aside and took a deep breath as he realised they had smudged the ink. He screwed the parchment up and readied another, dipping his quill into the pot of ink. Ramsay sighed, irritated as his father didn’t even give his work a second glance. “I did my duty.” He probed. Still no answer. Just the interminable scratch of quill on parchment. Rolling his eyes, Ramsay slumped into the seat opposite his father. And waited.  
Roose poured the pink wax, pushed the flayed man into it and set the letter aside. Ramsay shifted in his seat, weary of waiting. Finally, his father fingered the bed sheet, inspecting his night’s work. “There’s a lot more than expected.” Roose pointed out.  
“Well it’s waited long enough. She should have been bedded and bloodied a long time ago. Better late than never though.” Ramsay smiled again, admiring the sheets.  
“You don’t think the Northern Lords will notice how much blood there is? You don’t think they’ll despise you for it?” Roose’s words were neither cold nor angry. They were indifferent. They allowed his son to control the conversation. Ramsay never even noticed. “Let them. I’m Lord of Winterfell now. You are Warden of the North. They want to rebel? Fine. Let them see what happens when you try to cross a Bolton.” Ramsay said, tilting his chin up defiantly.  
“Very well. See to it that your wife is presentable for supper. You may go.” Roose returned to his letters and the incessant sound of quill on parchment resumed.  
Ramsay sat there for a moment, too stunned to move. He had been expecting a lecture. A warning. A threat. Instead, his father had almost agreed with him.  
“I said you may go.” Roose reminded him, never looking up from his work. Standing up abruptly, Ramsay muttered a quick “Yes, thank you father.” Before leaving in search of food and entertainment for the day.  
Myranda showed no intention of staying to help Reek bathe Sansa. Reek was well aware that she knew how much it would pain him to cleanse her of the cruelties he had witnessed. They said nought to each other, but she clung to him as he eased her into the tub. Their nakedness no longer seemed to matter. They had nothing left to hide from one another.  
He started with her hair first; pouring warm water over it with shaking hands, careful not to get it in her eyes. Sansa leaned back into it, enjoying the feeling of Ramsay’s petting being washed away. Reek combed out the knots as gently as he could. The steady rhythm of the strokes was almost relaxing, and he spent far longer on her hair than needed. Sansa didn’t seem to mind though.  
As he eased the wet cloth over her back however, she stiffened and released a wail of pain. He retracted his hand instantly, reeling away from her. What had he done wrong? Would he be punished for it? Sansa continued to cry and Reek remained where he was, frozen, unsure of what he’d done. When no punishment came, he began to inch closer, inspecting her back.   
Theon remembered then.  
The way Ramsay had taken her against the rough wooden door had left splinters in her back. The same frightening hatred that had burned through him then returned to him now. Theon trailed is fingers over the ridges in her back where the wood had inserted itself. They were inflamed and raw and Sansa hissed in agony. “What has he done to you? What have I…” The words were barely a whisper, but Reek didn’t let him finish. What have I let him do? Theon felt the pain of every splinter beneath Sansa’s pale skin. I should have stopped him, or died in the attempt. Reek wrapped his cold hands around Theon’s throat, silencing him. But it was too late for that. “Why is he so cruel?” Sansa muttered, turning to face him, biting back the pain. She’s so strong. Stronger than me.  
“I’ll go get the Maester.” Reek said, standing and heading for the door.  
“Theon…”  
“Not Theon. Reek. You have to know your name Lady Sansa. You have to.” He urged, backing away from her as though she would strike him. “Just…just try to please him. Master can be merciful. It will get easier.” An empty promise. As empty as her sad blue eyes.


	14. Watch Me Bleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are  
> we're stuck inside this salted earth together.  
> You'll pierce my lungs  
> my limbs go numb  
> as my colours fade out,  
> You watch me bleed.

Reek lied. She’d known that, yet she’d believed him anyway. Reek lied to save his fingers and toes.  
It did not get easier.  
During the day, she was left alone in her chambers; occasionally ordered by Roose to attend Lady Walda so she would be seen about the castle. Sansa was always too weak to attend breakfast, but at dinner she sat between her husband and Lord Bolton. With Ramsay beside her, she was too afraid of spilling something to be aware of the Northern Lords watching her every move; their eyes narrowing with every flinch and tremor.  
Every night, Ramsay would find some new way to demean her. To humiliate her. To make her scream and beg and plead. Sansa would do anything to please him. Even if he used Reek in his little games. She was a good girl. A good wife. She did her duty. Yet it never ended. Ramsay would show her some mercy, make her swell with gratitude and thank him for his kindness. He’d make her yearn for his soft touch, to follow him if he moved away. But her gratitude was not always what he wanted.  
Sometimes, he’d try to provoke Alayne. He’d trick her. Make her bite him, scratch him or just flinch away from his hand. Then he’d punish Sansa for it. He’d make her beg, call him Master, do anything to stop the pain. And Sansa would. She’d let him do anything. He had consumed her and never ceased to try and find new ways to manipulate her.  
One time, he’d been showing her mercy. Caressing her and kissing her, making her thank him for his kindness. Then he’d said it. _Sweetling._ The word had sent Sansa into panic, and Alayne into a fit of anger and hatred. Sansa had screamed whilst Alayne fought. Ramsay had disappeared. Instead, she saw only Littlefinger; the man who’d thrown her to the monsters and was leaving her to drown amongst them. It had taken a long time for Ramsay to get her back under control. He’d had to punch her in the stomach and knock the wind from her in order to pin her down onto the bed. Despite the bruises and scratches she had marked him with, he had been smiling. From then on, if he had failed to provoke Alayne by any other means, he would tie Sansa to the bed and call her sweetling until Alayne shrieked and howled for him to stop. Then he used his belt across her stomach, leaving searing welts, driving Alayne further down until only Sansa remained, whimpering and begging for her Master to stop.   
That had not been the worst of it though. The cruellest trick had been one Ramsay had employed Myranda for. He’d had her ask Sansa if she wished for any of her belongings to be brought to their chambers as so far Sansa only had clothes in there. Longing for some reminder of home, some way to cling to the strength and courage her family provided, Sansa had asked for Grey Wind’s pelt. That night, Ramsay had made her get on all fours on the bed. Draped in the furs of her dead brother’s wolf, Ramsay had fucked her as the way he had Reek on their wedding night. “Wanted to be a wolf did you?” He’d growled. “Well wife, this is how wolves do it. Does that please you? Do you feel like a Stark now?” Sansa had been in so much pain as he’d pushed into her that the darkness had threatened to consume her again. Blood slickened her thighs as Ramsay slapped against her. Only his teeth sinking into her shoulder prevented her from giving into the blackness. “Winter is coming!” He’d howled as he shuddered and came, a foul mockery of the Stark words. Afterwards, he twisted through her mind again. “I should have brought one of my dogs in to do it. They love the taste of wolf. Aren’t you grateful for my mercy, wife? Wasn’t it kind of me to do it myself?” He’d cooed, stroking her hair gently.  
“Yes, my Lord husband. I am grateful for your mercy.” Sansa had whispered. He’d pulled out of her abruptly, making her cry out again. Unable to stop herself, Sansa clung to him as he’d lain down on the bed beside her; arms and legs wrapped around him tightly. The joy she’d felt when he sighed contentedly was sickening. As he slept, Sansa had stared at Grey Wind’s pelt, now lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. He had been her brother’s wolf. Lady’s brother. And what Ramsay had made her do with it…  
Theon had been watching too.

Her mind had been made up that night.  
The next morning, while Reek had gone to fetch water for her bath, Sansa had gone to the window. Their chambers were at the top of the southernmost tower of the keep and overlooked the courtyard below. The cobbles were still cushioned with snow, but she doubted it would make much difference. The pure ground would make such a lovely canvas. She hadn’t been outside since the wedding night. Mealtimes were her only escape. As Sansa stepped onto the window ledge, the cold winter breeze gave her a softer kiss than any Ramsay had given. She could hear the wind calling to her. Snow fell, ready to welcome her in its cold embrace. _Everyone will know. Everyone will see my body and they’ll know what he’s done to me. They’ll know he drove me to this._ She was too afraid to admit to being the daughter of Winterfell, but that was what the Lords would see her as; crumpled there, a heap of bloodied, broken bones on the white ground.  
Sansa slipped her foot out of the window and into the air, as gently as she would place her foot into a shoe.  
“Sansa, no!” Theon screamed. His thin arms slipped about her waist just as she tipped forward. Her stomach lurched as she was yanked back into the bed chamber. Sansa gasped when she fell onto Theon, the shock of what she had just attempted making her cry out in fear. “You must live. For Bran. For Rickon.” Theon muttered.  
She clung to him, trembling in terror. “Don’t tell him!” Sansa cried. “Don’t tell him what I did. He’ll…he might do that…the thing with the fur…” She gasped. Reek stayed quiet that time. No empty promises. But Sansa knew Theon wouldn’t tell.

The childish scrawl on the parchment didn’t seem to register. He stared at it for a long time, hoping for the words to dance and change meaning. It couldn’t be true. She’d been through so much. He’d trained her so well. He’d thought she was ready.

_The bastard is breaking her._  
I see her only at supper and occasionally going to Lady Walda’s chambers.  
At night, we hear her screaming.  
The whore says Songbird calls him Master.

That was all that was written. It was enough. Petyr curled his hands into fists, crushing the letter with it. He had known what the bastard was like; brutal and cruel. But not clever. Sansa was clever. He had been relying on that. _Damage control_ Littlefinger thought. _Change the game_.   
A light breeze stirred the curtains, sending the cold mountain air into the room. Petyr did not shiver, just stood and closed the shutters. Winter was coming. It would have to be done before then. “Guard!” He called, returning to his desk.   
“Yes my lord?” The door opened abruptly, revealing the lanky, pockmarked youth behind it.  
“Send word to Lord Royce. Tell him I am to take a score of men to Winterfell to visit the Lady Sansa. He is to be in charge while I am gone.” Petyr instructed. That should please him and he needed to sweeten the man. He was certain Lord Royce would make a few changes; revert back to more noble customs. Well that was fine. He would allow him that. The North was too valuable to lose.  
“Very well, my Lord.” The guard said, bowing and closing the door behind him. Littlefinger sat down and began his letter. _Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North…_  
The quill swam across the parchment, drowning it with lies and promises of Arbor gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that bit sounded very non-Littlefinger-y. It's not my best work, I'll admit. He isn't just thinking about Sansa here though, he's thinking about his plans for the North, whatever they may be, going to shit. Damage control is needed, and it all rests on Sansa's bruised and broken shoulders.


	15. Porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay helps his wife prepare for her Uncle's arrival. He has yet another gift for her.

“No! My Lord, Master please! Don’t make me…please…I can’t…” She begged, clinging to the bloody sheets on the bed. Ramsay grimaced as he glimpsed Alayne resurfacing. It had been a long while since he’d seen her. Even the ‘sweetling’ trick had lost its charm. She was the last thing he needed to see now. “Come now love, don’t you want to see your Uncle Petyr?” He cooed, charging towards the bed. Sansa cowered away from him as he leapt onto the mattress, crawling towards her, a feral growl vibrated through his lips. “Please, Master…mercy…please don’t hurt me. I don’t want to see him! I don’t want to see anyone but you.” Sansa lifted a pale, trembling hand to touch his cheek. A bold move. A wail escaped her lips as he snatched her hand away, clutching it in his own, silently threatening he’d break more of her fingers. “You will see him. You must. You don’t make the decisions, do you wife?”  
“No my lord.”  
“Who does?”  
“You do my Lord.” Sansa bowed her head, tears streaming down her cheeks. Ramsay pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face back up so he could look into her sad blue eyes. “Have I ever told you how pretty you are when you cry, Lady Sansa?” He murmured gently.  
“Yes Master. Thank you Master.” She squeaked. Ramsay leaned in close, ready to cover her mouth with his own; longing to feel her whimper beneath him as he refused her the chance to breathe. There was no time for it though. “Well stop crying. Lord Baelish won’t like it.” Sansa sobbed again at his name but Ramsay ignored her. Catching her wrist, he dragged her from the bed, not waiting for her to get to her feet before pulling her towards the bathtub that awaited her. “Reek, get her clothes ready.” He barked.  
“Yes master.” Reek scurried across the room towards the ornate chest Ramsay had brought with him. Sansa hadn’t noticed it yet. That would make it all the sweeter when she did. Finally, he let her wrist go. She trembled like a doe beside the bathtub, awaiting his instruction; peering up at him with those frightened blue eyes. Ramsay could feel arousal burn in the pit of his stomach and knew he couldn’t wait any longer. “Reek, come here. Bring the dress.” He ordered, turning to watch Sansa’s reaction. Her eyes never left him. She keened towards him as he lifted a hand to caress her face. He had been careful not to mark it. Only a faint scar remained from where he’d split her lip on that first night. Smiling at her, he moved his hand down. Beyond the neck was another matter entirely. Bruises and scars marked her porcelain skin; the frail shell shattered so easily. Sansa winced as he prodded at one of the blackening bruises. “I’ve been a little too rough with you, haven’t I wife? I know you like that. You do, don’t you?”   
“Yes Master.” She muttered, eyes never leaving his. He could see her force herself into his touch. _So close now_. “Sadly, your uncle won’t like seeing you so roughed up. You need to look your best for him. Fortunately, my great grandfather sent me a gift, especially for this occasion.” Confusion marred her pitiful face as she put together the pieces. Ramsay held out his hand and felt the rough fabric slide over his skin. “No.” Her voice was but a mere whisper. “No…please…no…”  
“You have no idea how hard the bloodstains were to get out. Well…neither do I…but the look on the washerwomen’s faces was enough. They had to dye it too. It’s a good job there are no bruises on your neck, dearest wife. This garment does so little to protect the throat…” Ramsay caught her just in time. Sansa’s limp body fell against him, though he barely felt her. She had grown thin, despite the fact that he had been feeding her enough. _Fine_. Ramsay liked his pets frail and weak. And dependant. Thrusting the dress back into Reek’s maimed hands, he grasped the back of Sansa’s head, plunging her face down into the bath until she began to kick and thrash. Kneeling down beside her, he yanked her back out again so she could hear him. “Don’t you like Lord Walder’s gift, wife?” He chuckled. Sansa screamed in panic as he pushed her under again. “He gave it to me, so I can put it on anyone I want. It wouldn’t suit Reek, I can assure you. He might not be a man, but he is no woman. He’s just a pet. A thing. My loyal bitch. You’ll wear it, won’t you Lady Sansa?” He cooed when he allowed her to resurface. Sansa struggled to turn and look up at him. “No, my Lord…please…you don’t understand!” She wailed, earning herself another dunking. To Ramsay’s surprise, she continued talking once he pulled her out again. “HE CAN’T SEE ME IN THAT!” She screamed. That made Ramsay pause. “Why?” He growled. Sansa sobbed with relief, occasionally coughing up water. “Petyr…my mother…he…”  
“He _what?”  
_ “He loved her.” She spluttered. Ramsay let go of the back of her head, allowing her to collapse against him. “Lord Baelish loved your mother?” His voice was gentle now and he petted her head comfortingly. He felt her nod as she crawled further into him. “Perfect.” Ramsay purred.

It was not the winds of winter that made her shudder. She could almost smell the blood, taste it on the back of her tongue. It made her eyes blurry and stung them with tears. Her head felt light and the courtyard started to spin. _No. I can’t faint. What would he do to me if I fainted in front of them all?_ Sansa dreaded to think. Would it be death? _Maybe in his wroth he would kill me quickly._  
“Riders approaching!” The cry went up and the gates to Winterfell were thrown open. Sansa gripped her husband’s arm as tightly as she could, not caring about the stares. Her knees shook so badly she feared she would not be able to prevent herself from falling even if she tried. _I can’t do this…I don’t want to see him…I don’t…I can’t…_  
When grey met blue, she looked away. His gaze remained on her as he rode in. She could feel it. Everything. She felt _everything_. She felt Petyr look away from her, meeting Ramsay’s triumphant gaze as his grip on her tightened. _I hate you_. The thought was thrown out into the open, unsure of who its target was.   
All movement came to a standstill. “You are very welcome to Winterfell, Lord Baelish.” Roose’s voice was the loudest she’d ever heard it. A beast crying out a challenge. “My thanks, Lord Bolton.” The other howled back. Still looking at the ground, Sansa listened to him approach her. Feet hitting gravel; slow steps compared with the beating of her frantic heart. “It is good to see you again, my Lady.” His voice was low. There was no challenge in it, yet she cowered from the concern, inching closer to her Lord husband until Ramsay’s finger jabbed her side. Sansa forced back a yelp of fear. “L…Lord Baelish.” She managed to stutter. He was so _close_. The scent of his breath lingered between them. When he gently pried her hand away from her husband’s arm, she found she could do little in way of hesitating. Sansa raised her eyes as his lips met her pale, porcelain skin. “Please, call me Petyr.”


	16. Broken Little Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’re too mean, I don’t like you, fuck you anyway  
> You make me wanna scream at the top of my lungs  
> It hurts but I won’t fight you.

Lord Baelish took the place of honour between Lord Bolton and Ramsay, with Sansa on Ramsay’s other side. She was glad that Ramsay was between them. The moment of their eyes meeting in the courtyard lingered even as the hall grew busier and the thought of seeing it again had frightened her. What would Ramsay have done if he’d seen the understanding and concern in Petyr’s eyes? Thankfully, Littlefinger’s face had betrayed nothing. That meant everything. The mask had been fastened firmly in place. He must have seen her pale flesh, the slow-healing lip, the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes. Yet he remained unperturbed. Sansa could hear him conversing with Roose, discussing Stannis Baratheon and his host at Castle Black. _With Jon_. No. She couldn’t think of Jon now.  
Ramsay never released his hold of her. While he ate, his arm would rest against hers or his booted foot would cover the thin leather of her shoes. When he was not eating, his hand would be in hers or on her wrist or touching her hair. Occasionally even settling on the back of her neck, making her hunch her shoulders uncomfortably.  
“Arbor gold, as promised my Lord.” Petyr called out cheerfully as casks of wine were brought forward and settled before Roose Bolton’s place at the high table.   
“You are too kind Lord Baelish. We Northmen might not long for your sweltering summers, but we envy you your fine wines.” Roose replied with the same pleasantness. The wine was poured yet the cups remained untouched. Sansa could feel Ramsay tense up as suspicion coursed through him. _Does he think Littlefinger is that foolish?_ The thought almost made her gasp in shock. She should not think such things. Her husband was simply being cautious.  
“My wife and I must thank you for your generous wedding gift, Lord Baelish.” Ramsay squeezed her hand then, commanding her to speak.  
“Yes, my Lord. Thank you my Lord.” The pressure on her hand lingered long enough for her to know that her performance was poorly done, and that they would rehearse later.  
“ My wife offered me your gift to her. She understands that what’s hers is mine. I must thank you for her as well, Lord Baelish. Had it not been for your intervention, I wouldn’t have landed myself such an obedient bride.”  
“You’re most welcome, Lord Ramsay. I trust the pies were to your liking?” Ramsay’s head was facing Petyr, giving Sansa the chance to look up, a small part of her longing to get his attention. But Petyr wasn’t looking at her. He glanced over at fat Lady Walda, then back to Ramsay again. “Very much so. The meat had an unusual flavour though. I struggled to discern what it was exactly.”  
Petyr smiled.  
“Oh, a number of things I am sure. Pig mainly, I believe. The finest in The Fingers.” The table forced laughter at that. Sansa played along beside them and reached for her wine cup, only to have her husband pull her back. “Lord Baelish, what do you think of my wife’s new gown? It’s not new, to tell you the truth. But it’s fitting, is it not?”   
_Don’t do this. No now. Please…_  
“It’s a fine gown, my Lord.”   
Sansa held her breath and felt her hands start to tremble.  
“It was a gift from Lord Frey. Though it exposes the neck a little too much for my taste.” Ramsay smirked.  
A twitch. That was all. A twitch of the mouth betrayed Petyr’s anger.  
A twitch that soon became a smile.  
“On the contrary, my Lord. A young lady like my niece has such fair skin. It seems a shame to cover it all up. It’s almost as though there is something to hide.” Littlefinger’s eyes never left Ramsay’s as he reached for his goblet and took a sip of the wine.   
“Shall we drink to your health, Lady Sansa?” Petyr asked, holding his goblet up. The other Lord’s followed suit, much to her husband’s vexation. He released his grip on Sansa’s wrist, shoving her arm down onto the table. “You are too kind, Petyr.” A mere tremor, yet it made her feel braver. She sipped at the fine wine, no longer wishing so much for it to be laced with poison.

Her new found bravery did not last.  
Following the moment of defiance at the feast, Ramsay made sure she was never alone with Petyr again, and he was sure to quickly quench any conversation between them at mealtimes. She and Petyr often went walking, but one of Ramsay’s friends always seemed to be nearby. Not that Sansa was brave enough to say much anyway. She had learnt her lesson to never defy him or humiliate him in public. As soon as they had returned from the feast, he had bound her to the bed; gagging her so their guest would not hear, and had forced himself on her with all his men, Reek and Myranda watching. He never even let her take off her mother’s dress.

Were he not so concerned with the damage that had been done, he might have thought to comfort her. Sansa was of little use to him like this, but he still needed her. Through no fault of his, she was afraid of him; he had learnt as much through the Northern Lords. They were no friends of his, they were sure to make that plain, but an offer of fine wine did not harm the pride. Just loosened the tongue. Of course, most knew little and less than what Petyr did, but it helped him to learn of the standing at Winterfell. “He makes the little wolf scream all night long, then she comes out the next day at his heels like some obedient little pup.” One Lord slurred.  “Poor thing. Damn the man. Does he not know whose daughter she is? Lord Eddard’s little girl, Lord Baelish. Our Lord Eddard’s little girl.”  
_And Catelyn’s.  
_ Catelyn. In her mother’s dress, she had looked more like her mother than ever. But it was not the Cat he had known as a boy. It was the Cat he had seen in the tent at Lord Renly’s camp. The Cat she’d been when he’d delivered her the bones of her dead husband. The _broken_ Cat.  
She was no use to him broken. Fortunately, her behaviour at his welcome feast had assured him his Sansa was not gone, and what was broken could be fixed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter + My feelings = Meh.  
> But I owed a chapter and I have an awesome plan for things to come! YAYAYAYAY!!!! So excited to get there. There will be one more chapter before Petyr goes home, then the fun can begin. What? You didn't think he was going to stay forever did you?


	17. Choosing Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Take this breath  
> For the lives we waste  
> For the hollow souls we own  
> Give me hope  
> For a restless heart  
> Where we'll go no one will follow

Her eyes snapped open at the sound of paper scraping across wood. Beside her, the bed was empty save for the bloody mess of sheets. Sansa sat up and rubbed sleep from her eyes; she felt that familiar ache but made no attempt to see where its source was. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d hurt every day until either she or her husband died. Sansa had come to terms with that. All that she could pray for now was that she was the one to go first, just so his fun would be ruined.  
The note sat a foot away from the door; lying in wait.  
_Petyr. It must be Petyr._ Sansa scrambled out of the bed, ignoring the pain between her thighs, and clambered towards the letter. He must be informing her of his plans. If he did not today, it would be too late. Tomorrow morning he left for the Vale, not wishing to be trapped when the snows came. _He must be planning to take me with him. To sneak me out somehow_. He had done it before, and that was in Kings Landing where she had been surrounded by her enemies. _Surely the Northern Lords would help…_  
Her heart sank when she read the five, indifferent, unpromising words.

_Meet me in the Godswood_

No tears fell. Her hand trembled not from the feeling of her hopes being crushed, but from anger. How could Petyr be so _stupid_? The Godswood? Did he not think Ramsay had people following her every time she left their room?  
The rage burned through her; the bars of fear unable to hold it back. Sansa tore up the letter, tired of having to starve her anger. In King’s Landing, she had had to hide her hatred. Here it was forced down and locked away by the fear she held for the man who was her husband. The man who was supposed to protect her and cherish her for as long as they both lived. Sansa would have laughed had it not been for her fury.  
Of course, when her anger had subsided and the fear had returned, she picked up the pieces of the note and scattered them beneath the logs in the hearth. _Meet me in the Godswood_. It would not matter whether Ramsay had men following or not; tonight, he would hurt her and humiliate her again, no matter what she did. She wanted to know what Petyr had to say. She wanted to know her purpose. If someone followed her there and heard what was said then what of it? Ramsay would know that Petyr had sent her there for a reason, but if he hadn’t worked that out already he was a bigger idiot than she’d known.  
_You can’t think that! He is not an idiot. Master is clever and good to you, it’s only when you…  
_ “Oh shut up you little fool.” Sansa hissed aloud. The voice was shocked into silence. She walked over to Ramsay’s table and filled up a cup of wine, downing it for courage. Myranda wasn’t to hand, as usual, so Sansa dressed herself.   
Perhaps it was a good thing Myranda was not there to ask questions. The handmaid had been nicer to her since her wedding day, but Sansa still failed to trust her. What’s more, one night Ramsay had got the woman to join in on one of his games. It became clear to Sansa then that it was not the first time Myranda had shared her husband’s bed. He seemed to enjoy her company too; a willing companion that enjoyed cruelty as much as he did. She had watched them together, all the while wondering how Myranda endured and managed to enjoy it. Sansa was not sure what sickened her more; how they’d taken their pleasure by humiliating and hurting her or that all this time her own handmaiden had been working for both herself and Ramsay. She had expected that in King’s Landing, but not here. Not in Winterfell.  
Sansa fumbled with the fastenings on the dress and did her best to cover the fresh marks across her chest; fastening a thick cloak over the rest of the remaining visible flesh with a wolf pelt for extra coverage. The silver direwolf head clasp had been returned to her when Petyr had arrived; she had not seen it since her wedding day. Clearly they thought it would be strange if she appeared too much of a Bolton. _Did they think a clasp is enough to change everything Ramsay has done?_ Again, something pounded against her insides, fighting against her thoughts. _They’ll get you hurt. He’ll punish you for this, and if you get punished then so will I!_ It cried.  
“Fingers and toes.” Sansa whispered to herself, recalling the conversation she’d had with Theon before she’d been made a Bolton. _Fingers and toes_. She muttered the words over and over as she hurried from the room, praying she’d make it to the Godswood before her new found courage fled.

It was strange seeing Petyr beneath the Weirwood tree. _He doesn’t belong here_. A spark of anger lingered from earlier on, but she tried not to provoke it. She needed a clear head.   
He did not turn as she approached. Sansa wondered if he knew this was the place her father had sat and sharpened Ice. Where his mother had sometimes sat beside him. Where she and her siblings had played.   
_In a better world, one where love can overcome strength and duty, you might have been my child.  
_ Those words seemed to have happened so long ago. Before she had married Ramsay. Before she had even come to Winterfell. Before _Alayne_. The name sounded alien to her now, yet no voice chastised her for saying it.  
_But we don’t live in that world._  
No. Did that hurt him? Knowing that all his childhood dreams could have happened had the world been like the ones in the stories. _He was a dreamer too once, just like me._ It had hurt her, and he had lived longer. Yet it hadn’t broken him.   
“I suppose you are wondering why I asked for you to meet me here.” He hadn’t turned, nor shown any signs that he’d heard her approach. Sansa didn’t stop until they were standing shoulder to shoulder, both staring towards the Weirwood’s sombre face. “It isn’t safe. Not even here. My husband has people watching me.” She confessed, already sensing that their conversation was not one for prying ears.  
“You have been here too long and forgotten too much Lady Sansa.” The smile could be heard in his voice. “No one shall hear us. Every man has a price. Fortunately, those that have not felt the kiss of a flaying knife are much cheaper than those that have.” Sansa shuddered. Ramsay hadn’t flayed her yet. He liked her skin too much and it would be ruined if he had. “What makes you think I will not tell? You think I will lie to my Lord husband?” The words were said with a bitterness that sent the fear in her screaming; fighting her like some wild animal. Petyr remained silent. His unsaid words filled her ears, causing her to tremble. “I have been spending much time with the Northern Lords. They are very concerned for your welfare, my Lady.”  
“That’s very kind of them.” Her words were harsh. If they were so concerned, why had they done nothing to help her? “Do you remember why I sent you here?” It was Sansa’s turn to remain silent now. “Avenge them.” He muttered. _What do we do to those who’ve hurt the ones we love?_ “I can’t. Lord Baelish, you don’t understand. The things…what he’s done. She’s gone. I can’t get her back.” The words were a whisper and she was fortunate that there was so little space between them. There was no need to elaborate on who _she_ was. “We have no need of her now.” Was all Petyr said. Sansa turned to him then. _No need?_ He gave her no time to question it. “Your screams are more dangerous to the Boltons than all of Stannis’ forces put together. The Northmen loath your husband. They tell troubling tales of what he does to you behind closed doors.”  
“Then why don’t they help me?” She snapped, the anger inside her burning brighter.  
“He is not the one you should be afraid of, sweetling.” Sansa repressed a shudder at the word. “Ramsay is only alive for as long as Roose is. By my reckoning, Roose despises his bastard himself. But he needs him. He needs him, and you, and that fat Frey wife of his.”  
“For heirs.” Sansa finished for him.  
“As soon as you bear him an heir, Ramsay will become useless. An unneeded piece. He will rid himself of his bastard and rule through your son. No doubt you will be kept out of the way. It should be easy for him now as he considers you a piece.” Sansa stared at him in horror and amazement. He had figured Roose out in a matter of days. The thought of having a son raised by Roose was what made her want to wretch. Petyr read the look of terror on her face. “Fear not, sweetling. I have seen to it that you will not bear an heir. Not yet, anyway. A friend is helping me with the matter.” Sansa frowned at that, but was strangely glad Petyr had his workers, even in the North. “You have need of Ramsay.”  
“I…I need Ramsay?” It was almost a squeak.  
“He is a valuable piece. An unreliable one yes, but he is possessive of you. He doesn’t like it when someone else touches you or even speaks to you.” Petyr smiled at her, as though amused. Sansa’s eyes held the question, she had no need to voice it. “Joffrey did not die on his dogs watch, did he? You need a protector. A son against his father. What is weaker than a family that chases its own tail?” She saw no fault with that. The Lannister’s had fought each other, as had the Baratheon’s and thousands had died for it. She would have to keep the monster by her side, to protect her from another. _There are no heroes. In life, the monsters win._ Must she become a monster if she was to win? Ramsay could not rule, but nor could she allow Roose to take the North. Roose had killed her brother himself, he’d conspired with Walder Frey and betrayed her father’s memory. If she died, the Starks died with her.   
_Except for Bran and Rickon.  
_ Sansa almost gasped. Bran and Rickon. How had she forgotten? _I have to keep Winterfell. I have to take the North_. Bran was the rightful heir. Only a Stark could rule the North.  
She almost told Petyr, there and then, but something made her falter.  
Sansa looked at the grave face of the Weirwood tree.  
“You must be as strong as your Lady mother, Sansa. I still see her in you. Do not forget that.”  
“I won’t, Lord Baelish.” She managed a small smile.  
“Petyr.” He chuckled. It was clear that they were done there. Petyr turned and left her beneath the Weirwood tree. The wind picked up then, sending the leaves chasing after him, driving him out of the Godswood.


	18. Serve and Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Run from the light  
> your eyes, black like an animal  
> deep in the wander  
> and care for no one but the offspring of your might  
> run from the one who comes to find you  
> wait for the night that comes to hide you

With feet carved out of lead, Sansa made her way back to her chambers; the truth of Petyr’s words making her blood run cold. She would have to get her husband on her side. If she did not, the North would be lost to her. All this time she had thought Ramsay was her enemy, the one she needed to rid herself of. How could she have been so wrong? Roose was the danger here. Sansa had known the Northmen had hated Ramsay and feared Roose. With Roose gone, the Bolton’s would hold no power and the Starks would rule the North again. Once she found her brothers...  
_If. What if I never find them? Who would rule the North then?_  
Sansa forced the thought from her mind. They would be found. She was sure of it.

Stepping into her chambers, it were as though she were seeing it for the first times. The familiar walls around her seemed to welcome her in. The furniture had been moved around since she had lived here before, but it was the same room. _My room_. The room she had shared with Arya and gossiped with Jeyne. Where they had practised singing and dancing and telling foolish stories of gallant knights and beautiful maidens. How had she not noticed? Slowly making her way around the room, amused by how the stories she had once loved to listen to in this very room could not have been further from the truth. Even in this same room, she had been raped, humiliated and hurt for her husband’s amusement.  
_He’d told me it was a kindness. He’d convinced me that I had earned it.  
_ That was almost as stupid as Old Nan’s stories. Because of Ramsay, she hadn’t been herself since the moment she’d entered the room on her wedding night. The realisation hit her harder than Ramsay ever could. She had become what Ramsay had made her; a plaything for him to torment and manipulate. Like Alayne, Sansa had been lost. Consumed by fear. Manipulated into thinking he was all that mattered, a bit like…  
“Lady Sansa?” The sound of his voice made her start. Reek stared at her, seemingly scared to have startled her. “W…what do you want?” Sansa asked, unable to tear her gaze away from him. _Is that what would have become of me had Petyr not come?_ “Master wishes to know if you would like a bath before tonight’s feast?” The horrific realisation made it impossible to focus on what Reek was saying. Ramsay would have made her into a female version of Reek. Yet she would have to try and change that. She would have to try and change _him_. Manipulate him. Turn him against his own father. _How is that even possible?_  
“He knows you have been out.”  
Theon’s voice cut through her thoughts.  
“He…he knows?” She stammered. Theon just nodded in reply; fear and what she could’ve sworn was anger shone in his sea-blue eyes. “Very well.” Her voice sounded sure, almost brave. _Let him know. Let him ask his questions._ Ramsay was unpredictable. Sansa knew what Petyr wanted her…no… _needed_ her to do.   
And she would do it, no matter how much pain it would cause her. _It will be worth it to see them fall._

He sat in the chair by the fire, waiting. Reek trembled by his feet, sensing his built up anger as Ramsay petted him roughly. With his other hand, he reached for his cup of wine, draining it and swallowing the dregs; wincing at the bitter taste. It was not Ramsay’s first cup. The feast had needed more than a few drinks to speed it up a little, and even that hadn’t lifted his mood. He was too irritated to even try and taunt his brooding, miserable wife. Ramsay had made his excuses at the earliest opportunity, feigning illness. It wasn’t a complete lie. Every time he saw the smug smile on Baelish’s face his stomach twisted and writhed as though he had downed worms instead of wine. What made it worse was that, when he’d tried to drag his wife away, Baelish had insisted she stayed. _Insisted._ As though it were his place! Sansa belonged to him now, no matter how much Baelish wanted her. Then his father had agreed with Baelish, settling the matter. “Just wait until she gets back.” Ramsay growled, his grip on Reek’s hair tightening.  
Sansa had angered him before the feast had even begun. Earlier, he had returned to his chambers in search of entertainment, only to find the place empty. None of his boys had seen her, neither had the people he had threatened to keep an eye on her. She had simply disappeared. Sure enough, a little while later, he had watched Lord Baelish leave the Godswood, shortly followed by his Lady wife. Had she been unfaithful to him? He highly doubted that. He had ensured she would never dare to desire anyone other than himself. But that couldn’t stop Petyr from talking; whispering promises in her ear. Manipulating her.   
Ramsay would have punished her the moment she had returned to their chambers, had a scout not arrived with news of Stannis. Instead, he’d had to send Reek to check on her. “Lady Sansa has returned to her chambers, Master.” Reek had promised. That much was true. But the bitch was changed; he could sense it as he sat beside her at dinner. Her hands no longer shook. She did not shiver when he touched her. Neither did she whimper when he’d moved suddenly. Her mind had been too far away from Ramsay to reach. “I’ll get her back. I will.” Ramsay assured himself, ignoring Reek who began to whimper as he felt the hair loosening from his scalp.  
Footsteps were the only thing that saved Reek’s unkempt hair. Ramsay did not look away from the fire as the door groaned open and spat his wife into the room. The sound of it shutting seemed to echo around him. He heard her timid steps; could hear her ragged breathing as she drew closer. The scent of fear lingered amongst something far fouler; courage. Sansa stopped when she reached his side. Still Ramsay did not look away from the flames. “Has your health improved, my Lord?” She asked. The long-lost courtesy stoked the embers of his fury, stirring them into flames. No Master. No sound of fear or pleading in her voice. He wanted to beat her bloody there and then, to remind her of what happens to disobedient pets. He managed to restrain himself somehow. He needed answers first. Ramsay shoved Reek’s head off his lap, gripping the arms of his chair tightly, pinning himself down. “You left these chambers without informing me today.” He stated, slowly looking up at her, allowing the danger to show in his eyes. He was too vexed to taunt her now. The wine had washed the fun from him. “Yes.” Sansa replied, bowing her head in submission. It did little to quench his anger. “Why?” His voice was sharp. Demanding. “Lord Baelish wished to tell me something.”  
“And what, dearest wife” He spat “did he tell you?”  
Ramsay’s eyes never left her as she moved in front of him. He did not show the surprise he felt as she knelt before him; her delicate hands lingering over his own, then thinking better of it and allowing them to settle on his knees. _I should push her away_ he thought. For once, his curiosity overrode his instinct and he allowed the contact.   
“My Lord. My husband. Master, you know I am loyal to you. I try to be a good wife, though it pleases you to believe I am not…”  
“Do not test my patience, _wife_.” He hissed.  
**“** My screams of agony and fear are more dangerous than all of Lord Stannis’ forces. The Northern Lords know of how you treat me and they loathe you for it. It is your father they fear, not you. When…” The back of his hand meeting her cheek cut her off.  
“You think I will listen to this, wolf bitch? You think I care what the Northern Lords think? They will follow me when my time comes. I’ll flay them until they do!” Ramsay roared. Sansa let go of her reddening cheek and faced him again. “They will not. They are many, and there is only one of you. When your father dies, they will not follow you. But your father plans for you to never rule.” The final sentence caused Ramsay’s upraised hand to pause momentarily. “He has his fat Frey wife to bear him sons. Trueborn sons. He will wait until you have put a son in me, a child of House Bolton and Stark. Then he will rid himself of you.”  
“You lying whore!” She caught his fist somehow before it smashed into her cheek, fixing him with a cold stare; transfixing him. “He will rid himself of you and take our son away. He will rule through him.” Ramsay disentangled his hand from her pale claws and snatched at her, grasping her red hair. Sansa cried out as he dragged her over to the fire. He was not sure which was controlling him more, the wine or his anger. Flipping his frail wife onto her stomach, he grabbed her by the back of the head; pinning her down with his knee as she tried to struggle free. “Do you want me to show you what Master’s do to disobedient dogs?” He growled, pushing her face towards the flames.  
“You will never inherit Winterfell, let alone the North!” Sansa cried desperately, trying to turn and face him. “Not unless I help you!”  
He kept her face beside the angry flames until sweat and tears fell onto the stone. Ramsay pulled her away slightly, flipping her onto her back. “This is what Lord Baelish told you?” He asked with reason in his voice. Sansa nodded. Ramsay bore into her blue eyes, searching for a glimpse of a lie. There was none. “How do I know you are telling the truth? How does Lord Baelish know this will happen?”  
“A man learns many things in the capital.” His wife gasped, her face flushed red. “Littlefinger is a player, like your father. He…he’s clever. He knows the game. I swear, he would not tell me if he did not think it true.” Sansa’s gaze never slipped away from his.  
“Why would he tell you this? Why would he send you here into that?” _I should beat her bloody._ What she was saying could ruin everything, yet Ramsay could see the sense in it. It almost _hurt_. Perhaps he had known all along, but hadn’t wanted it to be true. “He wants me to rule the North. I can’t do that without you. I am but a woman. I do not understand such things, but you do.” He allowed her to sit up a little. “I’m here for _you_. Only the name I bear can save you and ensure you rule the North. Please…my lord, my husband. You are all I have left.” Adoration filled her eyes, freezing him in its embrace. He was so engrossed in them he barely felt her pale hand cup his face. “Let me help you gain the place you have earned. Promise me that you will protect me and work with me and with me at your side, we can rule the North.” Ramsay was too dumbstruck to say anything, but she read the question in his eyes. “Your father killed my brother and played a hand in killing my mother. I’d rather see you, my husband, in my father’s seat.”  
Ramsay pulled away and stood up, moving away from her but never taking his eyes off her. Despite her frail form, there was a strength in her that filled the room. It was not Alayne, he could tell. This was someone new. Ramsay sat down again, knitting his hands together, tilting his head back.   
What choice did he have? Trust his wife or his father. Sansa was easily kept in line and would bring him the Northmen. His father…he had never trusted his father. But did that mean he could betray him? His own blood for some bitch who said she should trust him. He had done little to gain her trust. All he had done he had done to gain her loyalty and ensure she obeyed. But Sansa was so much more than just a pet, or could be anyway.  
“You want my father dead. You want me to rule, with you at my side, is that it? And our sons will follow us?”  
“After everything that has happened, it is the best I can hope for my Lord.” Those were honest words. But it would take much more than words.  
“Fine. You will help me. I will protect you and work with you to ensure that our future is secure.” Sansa’s face broke into a smile, the only genuine smile he had seen from her since their wedding day.   
“Thank you, my lord. I swear I shall serve you well.” Ramsay closed his eyes wearily, a headache brewing. Then a thought struck him. A thought that would ensure his wife was speaking the truth and would serve him as well as she had sworn she would.  
“But before we commit to this…alliance, I need you to do something for me, wife.” He said, leaning forward and lowering his voice. Sansa moved towards him on all fours, resuming her position on her knees in front of him. Ramsay didn’t fail to notice that her hands gripped a little higher up his legs this time. “Of course, my Lord.” Her hands tightened around his thighs. “I will do whatever it takes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that alliance might seem premature, but Ramsay's price won't be an easy one. He's not mellowing, I promise.


	19. The Assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fold out your hands  
> Give me a sign  
> Put down your lies  
> Lay down next to me  
> Don't listen when I scream  
> Bury your doubts and fall asleep  
> Find out I was just a bad dream

Myranda readied Lady Sansa’s breakfast; laying it all out neatly on the small table in their chamber. With Lord Baelish leaving so early, there had been no time for breakfast beforehand. She had helped Lady Sansa dress and had braided her hair ready to see her uncle off. Myranda was excused from such an event. Normally she would not like being left out of such extravagances (they were few and far between in the North) but this time she was grateful. Despite the work she’d done for him, Littlefinger’s presence had done little to reassure her. He hadn’t even spoken to her, but his looks were enough. He _knew_ who she was. Had he rewarded her for it? No. Just a few assessing glances and he had sent her on her way again. Damn the man. Did he not know she was risking her neck for him?  
_Too late to turn back now._  
That much was true. If she told the Boltons of what she had been doing, Ramsay’s fondness of her would do nothing to save her skin. If she ceased helping Littlefinger altogether, he would have his man cut her throat. _Littlefinger will reward you in his own time, whore_ he had promised. She would have to take his word for it.  
When footsteps sounded from beyond the door, Myranda poured the moon tea into a cup, ready for Lady Sansa to drink alongside her breakfast as she had done every morning since her wedding. _This is all I have to do to be rewarded. Just this and no one knows about it._  
As soon as Sansa entered, Myranda went to her, slipping the cloak from around her shoulders. “Your breakfast is ready for you, my lady.” She informed dutifully.  
“I’m not hungry, thank you.” Sansa muttered, her mind somewhere far away.  
_Ungrateful bitch._  
“Won’t you at least have some tea, my lady? You must keep your strength up.” Myranda urged, hanging the cloak up. Lady Sansa just nodded and headed over to the table. As soon as her back was turned, Myranda smiled. This was all too easy. The handmaiden picked up a brush and began scrape off the dirt that clung to the hem of the cloak. “Leave that for now Myranda. Go and fetch another cup. I’m expecting Lady Bolton here soon.”  
The brush clattered to the floor.  
Myranda span around, her face one of shock and horror. “Is something the matter?” Sansa’s voice was soft. Innocent. She couldn’t _know_ , could she? Myranda desperately began to think, forcing her lips into a smile to hide her frantic thoughts. “Not at all my lady. I’ll get some more tea as well shall I?”  
“Why? There is plenty here.” _She can’t know. She’d never make me do this if she did._ “The…the tea…it must be cold now…” Her heart sank at the sight of steam rising from the pot.  
“Go and get a cup for Lady Walda, Myranda. The tea is fine.” Myranda recognised that voice. It made her shiver. It had been the one Lady Sansa had used when she’s first arrived. It was not the meek, submissive trill Myranda had grown accustomed to. _How is that possible? Ramsay_ broke _her._   
“Go. Now.” Sansa fixed her with a cold, demanding stare. Had she not been in such a panic, Myranda would have glared back. Instead, she hurried from the room, praying some idea would come to her and save Walda’s child.

Much to Myranda’s dismay, no epiphany came. When she arrived back at Sansa’s chambers, the fat woman was sat beside Lady Sansa; picking at the untouched breakfast. “They say babies are supposed to take preference to certain foods, but my boy seems to love just about anything! He’s strong too, my little Roose. He keeps me awake half the night with his kicking.” She squealed like an excited pig.  
Myranda set down the cup in front of her; legs turning as stiff as wood as she turned to pick up the pot of moon tea. The scent of mint filled her nostrils, making her go light-headed. _What would they do to me if they found out?_ Myranda had killed many herself. She enjoyed Ramsay’s hunting trips. But this wasn’t just some whore that threatened her position at Ramsay’s side. This was Roose Bolton’s _son_. If Walda lost the child…if they suspected her…  
The two ladies ceased their heartless chatter as the pot shattered, its contents spreading over the stone like wildfire. Myranda leapt out of its path, afraid of getting burned.  
“Gods be good! What is the matter with you?” Sansa cried, leaping out of her chair.  
“Forgive me m’lady. I…I am unwell. Shall I go get more tea?” Myranda asked, frantically picking up the pieces.  
“I think you’ve done enough damage. Lady Walda, please, have my cup.”  
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly…”  
“Please. I don’t have a thirst and you have the baby to provide for!” Sansa laughed. Myranda swallowed the bile building up at the back of her throat; eyes fixated, widening in horror. Yet her limbs allowed no movement as Fat Walda lifted the cup to her lips and began to drink.  
“You are dismissed from your duties this afternoon, Myranda. Go speak with the Maester. If you are unwell, you’ll be in need of help.”   
_She knows_ Myranda thought as she bowed her head and fled the room.

Theon waited, listening to the voices within. He watched Myranda leave from his place in the shadows. Reek cowered away from her instinctively, but her face was not the hunter’s mask he knew so well. _She’s frightened_ Theon thought. It almost made him happy to know the bitch could feel fear, and at Sansa’s hand too!  
Then he recalled why he was waiting and his joy faded. The assignment that Ramsay had set her.  
The minutes dragged by, their slow pace almost as painful as Ramsay’s flaying knife. Yet still there was nothing more than the quiet voices of two noble ladies discussing the prospect of children. Theon tried not to listen in. The thought of children was making him sick.  
Finally, the door creaked open and Reek slunk further back into the shadows. “Thank you for the tea, Lady Sansa.” Walda squeaked nervously. Theon saw her blush and lower her gaze, as though she were in awe of her companion. “Anytime, Lady Walda. I hope we can do it again soon. Our time together is…so precious to me.” Sansa’s smile was sickly sweet.  
“R…really?”  
“Oh yes! We are friends, are we not?” Walda snorted in her excitement but Sansa’s face remained pleasant. The fat lady nodded, muttered another thank you before hurrying off down the corridor; her large form making the hallway seem smaller.   
Theon’s gaze never left Sansa.  
“If you are going to spy, you might want to try breathing a little quieter.” She never even looked his way. Reek stayed still for a long while, unsure whether he had been the one she was addressing. “Come, Reek. There is a pot of spilled tea that needs clearing up.” Reek scuttled in after her, but Theon soon resurfaced once the door was closed, and there was little Reek could do to stop him. He stared at Sansa who had moved to the window. Her back was to him as she stared out across the moors, but he could see her chewing her thumbnail nervously. “You did it, didn’t you?” He asked quietly, tearing his eyes away from her. The silence whispered an affirmative. “How?” His voice was stronger with every passing moment. _What has he turned you into?_   
“Does it matter?” Sansa snapped, whirling around to face him, struggling to keep the mask in place. Theon shook his head, still unable to meet her gaze. _An unborn child. She murdered and unborn child._  
“What choice did I have?” He looked up then, shocked. Could she hear his thoughts? _No._ They had been written all over his face; etched into every weary line. “You are no man to pass judgement, Theon Greyjoy.” She continued, her voice starting to crack. “You let me brother’s go free, but who did you kill in their place? Whose bodies did you hang above the gates of Winterfell?” Theon was too wounded to be angry.   
_Dagmer was the one who slit their throats, not me!  
_ That made him feel no less guilty.  
_The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._  
Lord Stark’s words sent a shiver down his spine and tears to his eyes.  
Sansa did not wait for him to speak or feign innocence. She turned away from him to face the window once more. “I will not let him turn me into what you have become. I will do whatever it takes to make sure that doesn’t happen. I _need_ him Theon. I need him. For my brothers’ sakes.” Theon stared at her stiff back, letting the pieces fall into place. She was going to use Ramsay. She was going to use Ramsay to break Roose and take the North for her brothers’.  
_The game is too dangerous_ he wanted to tell her. _One step and you are dead._  
Sansa may be wedded and bedded, a woman grown, but she was still a young girl. A young girl who had been held captive at King’s Landing, then sold to the Bolton’s and mistreated by her husband. She couldn’t win. She couldn’t.  
_What have they done to you?_  
“I will pray a while. When I get back, I want the chambers clean, understand?” Sansa clasped her hands together as she hurried over to the door; her face pale and strained.   
“Yes m’lady.” Reek muttered. Sansa did not even look at him, just continued towards the door. She cried out in fright as it swung open of its own accord. A moment later, Damon Dance-for-me leaned against the frame, grinning wickedly. “Yes, go pray to your tree Lady Sansa.” He chuckled. Reek cowered low as the cruel gaze settled on him. “You’re going to need all the help you can get.”


	20. Begging Won't Save You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies  
> I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife  
> Offer me that deathless death  
> Good God, let me give you my life

Ramsay was not alone when he entered the room that evening. But his company was not what Sansa had been expecting. A string of serving girls entered the room carrying plates of food; salt pork, turnips in butter, bread, cheese, ale and wine. Sansa kept her eyes on Ramsay, searching for a trick. Reek was not present. When she had returned from the Godswood, he was gone. The chamber was only half clean. Somehow she knew that Ramsay had not killed him. She doubted he ever would. _And would it matter to me if he did?  
_ Things might be a lot easier if Theon was not there to remind her of who she had once been.  
“Come, Lady Sansa. I thought we should have dinner together. A husband and his wife deserve some privacy.” He smiled at her, excitement lighting up his cold eyes.  
_He’s planning something._ The look reminded her of Joffrey. Whenever he ordered her to be beaten, he would get as excited as a child on his name day.  
Sansa took a seat at the end of the table with Ramsay opposite her, still smiling that knowing smile. As soon as the food was served, he waved the girls away. “I understand you spent some time with Lady Walda today.” Ramsay said, hacking at the meat.  
“Yes my lord.” Sansa forced herself to eat. _I have done nothing he did not ask of me. Theon is to blame, not I.  
_ “I suppose you need more company than I can provide alone. And now that Petyr is gone, you must be feeling lonely.” He watched her carefully, picking up the cup of wine.  
“Not at all, my Lord husband. You are all the company I need. Lady Walda is the one who seeks friendship. I don’t have to be married to him to know that your father makes for a cold companion.” The words were bold, she knew. He stared at her, lost for words. Sansa picked up her goblet, smiled, and drank. “Is there something on your mind Ramsay? I get the feeling you are waiting for something.” Where had this boldness come from? She wasn’t entirely sure. _Tread carefully_. She had acted boldly before, and that had brought her nothing but pain. This felt different though. Ramsay seemed to sense it too. Instead of erupting into an angry fit, he slumped back in his chair. _  
We are both players here_.  
“Damon told me what he heard.” Ramsay admitted, regarding her with a glare. Sansa did not allow it to frighten her. “So? Should I get on the bed? Do you want me to become the meek little wife again?”   
“Do not push me _wife_.” He hissed.  
“Deal with Theon. Rid yourself of him and get your Reek back. He means nothing to me. Do whatever you need to and ensure you don’t lose him again. Then, when you aren’t so distracted, we can continue, _husband_.” His look did not lighten, but his eyebrows twitching closer together betrayed his feeling of confusion. Sansa smiled softly and reached across the table, catching his hand. “Now is not the time for us to loathe one another. If we are to play and win, we must trust each other, don’t you think?” Sansa blinked innocently, hoping to soften him somewhat.  
Ramsay watched her for a moment, considering her words carefully. An amused smile stretched across his face. He leaned forward, twisting his hand so he held hers, tightening his grip. “You are right of course.” Sansa frowned as he stood up, still keeping tight hold of her hand, and moved towards her. “Come wife, I have something I want to show you.” The excited boy had returned but Sansa steeled her nerves, allowing him to drag her from the room. The corridors were quiet and unlit with everyone dining in the Great Hall. Ramsay did not let her go and moved so quickly Sansa kept having to take running steps just to keep up. “My Lord, where are we going?” She asked, trying her best to sound excited and not terrified.  
_Is he dragging me away to kill me?_  
Horror and fear consumed her mind. _What if Petyr was wrong? What if I was wrong? What if he has told Roose? What if Roose ordered him to kill me in secret?_  
When Ramsay led her out into the cold night, the fear grew and threatened to overcome her recently found courage. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg him. To tell him he needed her and she him. That she would never betray him.  
_He’s going to throw me from the battlements, they’ll make it look like suicide._  
It was madness. Sansa laughed at the irony of it. She had tried to leap from the window of their chambers to spite her husband and earn the Boltons the hatred of the North. Now it was what they wanted.  
Ramsay did not lead her onto the battlements though. Instead, he hurried through the snow-filled courtyard towards the kitchens. When the servants saw them coming, they fled in the other direction.  
One of Old Nan’s stories sprang to her mind then, settling itself in amongst the madness. The one about the rat cook. Bran had always like that one. Sansa had hated it and only remembered that a man had fed a father his own son who was put in a pie. As punishment, the Gods had turned the cook into a rat who survived off of the flesh of his own young.  
_He wouldn’t put me in a pie would he?_  
Sansa found it strangely easy to imagine Ramsay being turned into a rat. One of the ones that Old Nan said lurked in the crypts; eating human flesh and the size of hunting hounds. She laughed at him then, alone in the dark with only his teeth to cause pain.   
Ramsay turned at the sound of her laughter and grinned. He led her through the kitchens and the store rooms. Sansa had never been this deep into the kitchens before. She and Jeyne had sometimes gone to Gage the cook to ask him for lemon cakes but they were always brought to them.  
Ramsay seemed to know his way well.  
“I’ve had to make do. Winterfell is not as well equipped for this as the Dreadfort is. I’ll make changes to that once Stannis is defeated.” He announced, grinning. Well equipped for what? Sansa knew little of the Dreadfort, but the name left little to the imagination. Ramsay began to slow down as they reached the back of the last storage room. Just in front of their feet was a door leading down into the cellars below. “They were storage rooms too. It’s a little cold down there. But you don’t mind, do you wife?” Sansa sensed she had little say on the matter. He smirked at her the same smirk he had used before. Sickening. Sadistic.  
Ramsay opened the trapdoor.   
“Ladies first.”  
_This is his game now. It will last the night. No more, no less. He will hurt me, but I will be alive at the end._  
Sansa headed down the steep wooden steps with Ramsay behind her. A torch burned in its sconce on the wall and Ramsay removed it so he could guide their way, wherever it was they were headed. He said nothing as he began to march through the abandoned cellar; sometimes whacking something randomly and sending echoes through the cavernous rooms. Sansa did her best not to jump at the sound, instead focusing on what might lay in store. She would be beaten and bleeding by the time they re-emerged from the cellar. He would mark her as his, reassert his dominance so that she would remember not to go behind his back.   
Her heart began to pound when she realised that here, in the far corner of the castle and within the earth, no one would hear her scream. Taking a deep breath and holding her chin higher, she followed her husband further into the cellar. Besides the ray of light ahead, she was surrounded by darkness. Sansa held out her hand and imagined the feeling of Lady’s fur slipping through her fingers, the sound of the wolfs panting and her paws as they padded across the dirt. With Lady at her side, Sansa was no longer afraid.  
The light ahead brightened as Ramsay lowered it into a brazier. That was when Sansa spotted it; a large wooden cross with a man bound to it, stripped save for a pair of filthy breeches, his head covered with a sack. “You want me to deal with Theon wife? Let’s deal with him!” Ramsay ripped off the sack and Reek cried out, blinded by the sudden light. Sansa remained half in darkness, not willing to let go of the wolf that was not there. “Hello Theon.” Ramsay growled to his frightened pet.  
“No master! Not Theon! Reek, Reek! It rhymes with…” Ramsay’s fist smashed into his jaw, silencing him. Sansa did not wince. It was clear to her that it was Reek on the cross, not Theon. Ramsay however seemed to see something she did not. “Only Theon lies to me. Reek never would.” Sansa could’ve sworn she’d heard hurt in her husband’s voice. When he turned to her though, there was no trace of it. “Damon told me everything.” He strode towards her and Sansa gripped Lady’s fur tighter. He did not stop until his face was inches from her, but he made no move to strike her. “Do you truly think my father would leave your brothers be if he knew they were alive?” She bowed her head, waiting for the tears to come. “If you are going to play, you had better get to know your opponent. As soon as Reek told him that Bran and Rickon were alive, my father sent his best hunter after them.” She did not flinch when Ramsay gripped her chin, forcing her head up. No tears would come. She had cried for Bran and Rickon already, a long time ago. Sansa met his gaze. “Reek told my father that the boys lived, but Theon…” Ramsay grinned down at her. “Theon told me almost the moment he met me. He had no clue who I was, but he told me anyway. He was willing to give up the one thing keeping your brothers safe, simply because it rested too heavily on his conscience. And now he has lied to you. He has told you they are alive. Reek knew they weren’t, but Theon would do _anything_ to save his own skin. He betrayed your own brother and your father’s memory so he didn’t look the fool in front of his family. He burned two innocent farm boys when he lost your brothers and, if he had found them, he would have killed them.” Her eyes never left his. “Now what do you think of that Lady Sansa?” Ramsay stepped away, releasing her. “Should we punish Theon for everything he has done?”  
“Yes.” Not a heartbeat had passed before the word slipped from her mouth.  
“And how shall we do it?”  
_Fingers and toes_.  
“A finger and a toe.”  
_You have to know your name, Lady Sansa. You have to.  
_ “He has to know his name.” Sansa looked at Theon then. He bowed his head; his body shook as the sobs tore through him. “Very good, lady Sansa.” Ramsay’s voice was gentle, rewarding. He freed the knife from his belt. “Come then wife, prove to me I can trust you. Prove that you can bear my name.” Sansa stepped back a little, suddenly unsure. _I do not want to hurt anyone…  
That did not stop you this morning, when you murdered an unborn babe_.  
The bitter voice spurred her forwards, her longing to be free of it driving her towards the knife. Ramsay tossed it into the air before she could take it, snatching it as it fell so that the handle faced her. Sansa tried not to think about what the bone of the handle had once belonged to.   
She did not meet his gaze, but Sansa could tell he was smiling at her; though whether it was through pride, interest, or waiting to see her freeze, she could not say. Sansa approached Theon, the knife feeling surprisingly light in her hand. She had heard her brothers speak of how important the balance of a sword was, now she was almost sure she understood. The knife was well crafted.   
“Please…” Theon whispered. “Sansa…please…” It was growing now, his fear getting louder when he saw the determination in her gaze.   
“He lied to you. He lied to your brother. He as good as killed your brothers. He doesn’t deserve to be treated like a man. He’s not a man anyway.” Ramsay urged her on from behind, but Sansa needed little convincing. The thought of her brothers, of Robb who’d always considered Theon as his own kin, was enough. “You should have been with him.” She hissed as the steel bit through flesh. “Where were you? You should have died with him!” Sansa had to raise her voice as Theon screamed and thrashed on the cross. The finger now dangled precariously by a single strand of flesh. Sansa paused to watch the hot blood spurt out of the open wound. “Theon turncloak.” She spat, kneeling and slicing into a toe without need of second thoughts. For now, she would forget who she was. It seemed to be so easy. _It feels like justice_ Sansa thought as Theon wailed and vomited, convulsing from the pain and the feeling of hot blood against his filthy flesh.  
“Very good, wife. Now, what else did you say we should do?” Ramsay cooed.  
“He has to know his name.” She growled, never looking away from Theon.  
“I think I can help you there.” Before a breath could be drawn, Ramsay moved in behind her; slipping one hand around her waist whilst the other placed a different knife into her palm. Sansa slowly wrapped her pale fingers around it, admiring the curve of the blade. “Now, you press it against his skin, like this.” Ramsay guided her hand, sliding the steel over Theon’s flesh until he’d selected the perfect location. Theon had begun to tremble with fearful anticipation. Sansa gasped as the metal slid beneath the skin as easily as she would slip a comb through her hair. Ramsay’s guidance on her hand dwindled until she was doing it by herself. Theon screamed as the first slice of skin on his torso fell to the floor. “Now, what is your name?” Ramsay asked Theon, his arm around Sansa’s waist tightening.  
“Reek. My name is Reek!” He cried. Sansa narrowed her eyes. “He’s lying. Theon’s still there. I can tell.” Ramsay did a mocking sigh, but she could hear the sadistic glee in it.  
“Oh dear Theon. My wife isn’t convinced.” Ramsay craned his head forward so his lips brushed her ear. “Do it again, wife.” He whispered. Sansa nodded and slid the knife beneath Theon’s flesh once more; feeling a sudden thrill as he screamed in agony. _For Robb_ she thought. _I’m doing this for Robb._  
“You know I should punish you too wife, don’t you?” Ramsay whispered playfully, his grip on her tightening even more.   
“Yes.” Sansa breathed, concentrating on her work. So engrossed was she in peeling Theon’s skin from his body that she didn’t even notice Ramsay move his hand off her arm. The feeling of his calloused hand on her breast took her unawares. “What are you doing?” She cried. Theon screamed as the knife cut deeper due to her being distracted. “Keep going.” Ramsay growled. Sansa obliged, hoping that if she pleased him, he would make it quick.   
Theon’s screams grew more satisfactory, but Ramsay’s hand on her breast was attracting her attention. His thumb circled her nipple, making her gasp in surprise. “What…what are you…please, stop…” Sansa was unable to make sense of the words running through her mind. She tried to squirm away as Ramsay rubbed himself against her. “Stop it!” She growled, managing to free herself from his grasp. His look darkened again, but it was not the same darkness as before.  
_Desire. Lust_.  
She had seen it in Petyr’s eyes sometimes.  
Before he could take another step towards her, a bloodcurdling scream echoed through the cellar. And it wasn’t Theon. The woman screamed again and again. So many emotions rolled into one high pitched wail; despair, pain, grief, shock, fear.   
Every emotion that juxtaposed Ramsay’s smile in that instant.  
“Oh my clever, cruel, beautiful wife!” He laughed, moving towards her. She knew she should move away, but something forced her feet to stay put. Ramsay’s lips met hers; his kiss savage and hungry. She could taste the heat of the moment. Before he went any further, he forced himself to step back, taking her face in his hands. “Your brothers are dead. I am all you have now. You _need_ me.” He leaned in. Sansa shivered as his lips brushed her ear again. “You _want_ me.” He whispered. Sansa shook her head but was unable to form the two letter word that could convince him otherwise. She cried out as he shoved her off balance, catching her before she hit the dirt. As he climbed on top of her, an odd heat flared at the pit of her stomach. “My father’s son is dead. You killed him. My good little wife.” His hand travelled downwards and he began to rub between her legs.  
“What are you doing? Please…please stop it.” Sansa begged, not liking the way her limbs twitched open to greet his touch.  
“We shall rule the North together, you and I. You and me, my little Shewolf.” His hand began to move faster, stoking the fire building inside her. The other hand slowly crept down to the hem of her dress.  
“No…don’t…” Sansa tried to beg. She didn’t want this, but _Gods_ …she did. Ramsay met her lips with his own again; the same savagery as before but now with more urgency. “You belong to me Sansa. You’re mine now. You’ll bring me the North.” His lips travelled south and he lifted her skirts, exposing her beneath.  
“Stop…please Ramsay…”  
“If you truly want me to stop, just close your legs.”  
She couldn’t.  
Her hands were buried deep in his hair; her mind under the pretence it was to push him away. Her body told a whole different story. When he finally thrust inside of her with his usual violence, Sansa welcomed it. “I _need_ you. I _want_ you. Together, we’ll rule the North.” She cried as they both came to the sound of Walda screaming.  


	21. Poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His eyes upon your face  
> His hand upon your hand  
> His lips caress your skin  
> It's more than I can stand  
> Feelings I can't fight  
> You're free to leave me, but just don't deceive me

Disorientation struck her when she opened her eyes and saw only darkness. Somewhere a woman still cried out for her lost child. But that was just background music to her now.  
Sansa shifted, gasping at the twinge of pain in her back. The ground she’d slept on was cold and filthy. The only warmth came from behind her and she instinctively sank into it.  
Then she remembered.  
The darkness dismembered Ramsay’s chuckle, making it even more disturbing. Sansa quickly stood up, ignoring the pain in her back and doing her best to drown out the strangely satisfying ache between her legs. “For a moment there wife I thought you were a changed woman.” The darkness laughed. No words came to her. Her mind had gone as black as the cellar they were in. Were they even in the cellar still? Sansa could hardly remember what had occurred last night. Only the pleasure that had drowned out all other senses lingered in her mind, making both her cheeks and the pit of her stomach burn again.  
Stumbling around in the darkness, Sansa tried to desperately find her dress; vaguely remembering that Ramsay had torn it off her at some point. Had it been the second or the first time? Sansa hoped it was still in a fit enough state to return to their chambers in.  
“Your dress is over here.” Ramsay called out. _Damn it_. “I’ve got it.”  
“Well then throw it to me!” Sansa snapped, not trusting herself to go back to him.  
“But I don’t know where you are! I might miss. Best you come to me and claim it yourself.” She could hear the amusement in Ramsay’s voice and knew there would be no convincing him otherwise. He still wanted to play. “Come on, follow my voice.” He called out softly. Sansa stood up straight and placed one unsteady foot in front of another. Her heart pounded in her chest; eager to move faster despite her dragging feet. “That’s it.” He muttered, closer now. Sansa’s insides squirmed and the fire burned brighter. When she felt his cold hand grasp her hip, she was unsure whether it was a gasp of shock or a sigh of relief that escaped her lips. He was still sat down on the ground. She could feel his warm breath ghost over her thighs, sending goose prickles over her pale skin. “You want your dress back?” He asked, his breath travelling up her leg.  
“Y…yes.”   
“You want to put your dress back on and leave. Is that it?”  
“Yes.” _No._  
“Are you sure? Don’t you want me to do this?” Sansa trembled as he kissed her.  
“Stop…don’t…” She whimpered. Her hands argued back as they ran through his hair. Her heart raced faster, her breathing was sharp and staccato. When her legs began to weaken until she was sure she would collapse, Ramsay shoved her away, laughing again when he heard her sigh in disappointment. He stood up and pressed the soft fabric of her dress against her stomach. “I think it’s time we let Reek down, don’t you wife?” Reek! She had forgotten.   
Ramsay moved away from her, though to where she could not say. Not until she heard the soft, sharp _chink_ of metal on stone. Moments later, the cellar was lit in an unwelcome orange glow. In the darkness, it had been easier to pretend. Easier to forget. The light licked at his face, making his teeth shine as he grinned at her. Sansa found herself momentarily transfixed on his face; longing to mirror his wicked grin. But the moment soon passed and she looked away, trying to quench the slick longing between her thighs.  
Theon was nowhere to be seen. Reek’s head hung low until his Master drew near him, then he looked up, quivering, into the piercing gaze. The blood had dried, but still glistened as red as rubies on the pale, feverish skin. Had Walda’s screams not filled the air, Sansa would have heard Reek chanting his name. _Reek, Reek…it rhymes with meek and weak._

The screams began to dwindle by the end of the second day. There was only so much blood she could lose before it began to take its toll.   
Sansa remained in her chambers; pacing until she was sure the floor would wear through. _It wasn’t me, I just did what he asked of me. I never meant to kill her_. A small voice would utter the words over and over, trying to convince her that they were true. Another voice soon joined the chant, fighting back, provoked by the ongoing screams. _Fine, I killed her. So what? She was a Frey. Now she is a Bolton. That child of hers would have been both. I did what I had to._  
By the time the screams had begun to die, that was the voice Sansa listened to. What’s more, the voice made her time with Ramsay far easier. It never regretted the decisions she made, nor what they did together as the childless mother slowly bled to her death. Sansa would please him as he would her. She suspected he was unknowingly becoming her equal, but wasn’t about to bring that to his attention. Ramsay liked to believe he was her master, and she was willing to allow him to go on believing that. The only pain now was the sweet one when he thrust into her. Or occasionally when he struck her as he climaxed; though in the moment that hardly hurt.   
Once they had returned from the cellar after that night, with Sansa firmly wrapped up in his cloak (her dress had been beyond salvaging), he had rarely left the room unless for business reasons. Sansa was sure that was a good sign. He allowed her to move about freely, without having to go on hands and knees and call him ‘master’. Petyr had wanted her to gain Ramsay’s attention. The trust and influence she needed to gain was yet to be discovered, though Sansa had decided upon a way to test it.  
Myranda was still her handmaiden, though she flinched and rarely spoke; fleeing the room the moment chance permitted. When Ramsay was in the room though, things were different. Sansa would watch as she served their meal; making eyes at her husband and inching closer, eager to gain favour. Sansa wanted to believe it was not jealousy that made her scowl and grip her knife and fork a little tighter. Ramsay lapped up the handmaiden’s attentions like some greedy hound, ignoring Sansa momentarily as his food was served with Myranda near enough on his lap.   
A test indeed.

As he’d expected, she was in their chambers; gazing out of the window like one of the ladies in the songs. That made him grin. She could stand by as many windows as she liked, she would still moan and beg like a whore come nightfall. Sansa remained unmoving as he shut the door behind him; from behind, he could see her chewing her thumb. Was she nervous? Upset? Too late for that now.  
“She’s dead, at last.” He said, moving towards the bed and pulling off his boots and shirt. Sansa stayed where she was. “Her and the child.” Ramsay stood and moved towards her, still smiling. His father’s son was gone, and he was his heir again. What’s more, Walda was gone too. His father had no one yet that could bear him a trueborn heir. Unlike himself. “Well done, my sweet little…” As he wrapped his arms around her, she shoved him off angrily and moved away. “What?” He snapped coldly, his smile gone. Ramsay moved towards her again, faster this time; grabbing for her only to have himself shoved off again. “The boy is gone, Sansa. And the mother. There is no one my father can breed from now. I am his heir, isn’t that what you wanted?”  
“And where are _our_ heirs Ramsay? Have you not thought of that?” His wife snapped, rounding on him.  
“What fault is that of mine?” Ramsay’s fists clenched. What was wrong with her? There had been no talk of sons before now. “You don’t understand! You don’t see, do you?” Her eyes blazed with anger and frustration.  
“You are pushing my patience _wife._ ” He hissed.  
“As you are mine, _husband_.” Sansa snapped back.  
The first blow knocked her to the floor. Ramsay pounced on her, pinning her down. “You overreach yourself. And you had been doing so well! Is it time for another lesson _wife_?” He growled, hoisting up her skirts.  
Sansa struck him, hard and sharp, across the face.  
In the split second he was stunned, she rolled over, forcing him with her so that she ended up on top. Before he could strike back, Sansa had pinned his arms down, her knee pushed down on his groin, making him gasp and squirm. “You’d be dead if it weren’t for me husband. I think I’ve earned your attention.” Biting back the pain her knee was causing, he struggled up so he was within biting distance. “Not likely.” His teeth managed to graze her soft lips before she pushed him back to the floor. For a moment, that desire he’d come to enjoy and exploit had filled her head and Sansa’s lips had followed his as she’d pushed him back, earning him a chance to escape. Once again, they rolled so that Ramsay was on top, swallowing her gasp whilst he did his best to undo his breeches. The lesson he’d planned wouldn’t work, he realised, on discovering she was wet and willing beneath him. Ramsay looked down at her to find Sansa grinning up at him. “What are you…” He cried out as her fingernails tore at the flesh on his back, making the skin slick with blood. Sansa growled as she rolled over to be on top of him, sitting down on his hips roughly, refusing to go faster despite how much he needed it. “Sansa…” He gasped. “Please…”  
“Got your attention now have I?” She purred, leaning forward and continuing to straddle him roughly but agonisingly slowly, forcing his arms up so they were trapped above his head and their faces were parallel, inches away from one another. “You never asked me how I did it.” She muttered as Ramsay focused on moving his hips to meet her; trying in vain to quicken the pace. “You never asked me how I killed them.” She pulled one hand away to slap him back into focus. Ramsay growled, not liking his new position, but enjoying it too much to reverse it. “How then?”

“Your whore.” Sansa whispered, her face darkening.  
“M…Myranda?” Ramsay moaned as she sped up a little.  
“Yes.” Sansa leaned down so she could whisper in his ear. She sped up even more, knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus for much longer. “Your whore gave me something that prevented me from bearing you a child.” She gritted her teeth, slamming her hips down on his savagely in her anger. “She killed them. All our sons. Our heirs.” Sansa continued to move faster until she felt him stiffen inside her. “She murdered them all, because I took her place as your bride. She’s jealous. Any sons we have will never be safe with her. I had her give Walda the tea, so I could be sure.” She pulled away so that she could look upon Ramsay’s face. She was not disappointed. “She killed our boys?” He growled. Sansa leaned forward, allowing him to see the tears that glistened in her eyes. “All our heirs that would secure your place as Lord of Winterfell.” Ramsay’s look darkened as he registered it all. Sansa leaned forward so she could whisper in his ear again. “I want her dead.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Has anyone read the newly released Alayne chapter? OM7G's!  
> Loving the relationship between Sansa and Myranda, though clearly I haven't gone down the friendship route for this story XD


	22. Pulling Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well I guess sometimes I wish you were a little more predictable  
> That I could read you just like a book  
> For now I can only guess what's coming next  
> By examining your timid smile  
> And the ways of the old, old winds blowing you back 'round  
> And I'm a goddamn fool, but then again so are you

It was rare for a handmaiden, or any servant, to get some time alone where they were not ordered to do something. Thankfully, Myranda was rarely asked to do more than her usual work as many didn’t appreciate her threats or scowls.  
“Fuck.” She hissed as the needle pierced her thumb, drawing blood. Myranda sat on her small bed, attempting to fix a broken dress in order to distract herself from the deafening silence. Lady Bolton was dead. Myranda was still at a loss on whether it was her fault or Lady Sansa’s. If Sansa had known about the moon tea, the fault was hers. She had _meant_ for it to happen. And Myranda could not work out why. No one had informed her of Littlefinger’s plan, but she was sure that hadn’t been a part of it. _Make sure she drinks the moon tea_ he had said. _Ensure he does not put a child in her_.  
They had been her exact orders. So why had Sansa made Walda drink the tea? Sansa had stopped drinking it herself. She was hardly up by breakfast time these days. Myranda had noticed a startling change in her mistress. Sansa was still quiet. But a coldness had settled in, freezing her nervous quivering. She even seemed _comfortable_ around Ramsay now and he no longer expected her to crawl around like a bitch and call him ‘master’. They usually would dine in their own chambers together and Sansa would order Myranda away the moment the food had been cleared, though Myranda did her best to make sure Ramsay had not forgotten her.  
The change in Sansa frightened her, so she did her best to stay on Ramsay’s good side. He hadn’t requested her service for some time, but he had shown no sign of suspicion and he had played no games with her. She was safe for the moment. Sansa had no power over Ramsay. She didn’t have the skill.  
Myranda lived amongst the makeshift quarters reserved for servants, so she thought nothing of the footsteps that sounded outside. When the door opened, she jumped and the needle sunk into her thumb a second time. “Shit! What?” She snapped, looking up to see who had entered her room unannounced. It was odd to see Ramsay standing in her doorway. She doubted he’d ever troubled himself to make his way to the servant’s quarters before. “My Lord. Forgive me, what can I do for you?” She smiled a sultry smile. Ramsay returned it, stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. Finally. He’d seen sense. “We don’t have long. Lady Sansa will wonder where I’ve gone.” He grinned.  
“Best be quick then.” Ramsay stepped further into the room and Myranda turned her back so he could undo her dress. He’d always invited her to his own chambers, and never came to hers. Perhaps he was bored of his sullen, meek little wife.  
Myranda shuddered as Ramsay’s cold hands grazed her skin. He pulled her dress down enough for her breasts to be exposed before he began kissing her neck, sinking his teeth in slightly the way he knew would make her gasp. “You’ve been very busy, haven’t you Myranda?” He muttered into her shoulder.  
“Yes my lord. Serving your wife.”  
“Pathetic thing isn’t she? So meek. So sullen. So easily broken. Not like you.” He whispered. Myranda murmured her affirmative, gasping as his hands pawed at her breasts. “You’ve been so busy, I haven’t had a chance to enjoy you for a long time.”  
“Yes my lord.”  
“Busy, killing my sons.” His hands moved up from her breasts and wrapped around her neck. “You reach too high, whore.” He spat in her ear. Myranda’s eyes widened in fear and realisation. A game, it had all been a game! His hands tightened and she clawed at them. “My lord…no…I never…”  
“Don’t lie to me slut. You murdered my heirs. I know, Sansa told me everything. Do you know what we do to whores that murder the sons of Lords?” Ramsay shoved her away from him and Myranda fell against the wall, clutching her neck and gasping for air. “Boys!” The door was flung open at Ramsay’s command and Damon, Skinner and Luton entered. “Find her a place that will serve as a cell and search her room.” Ramsay turned away and left, not giving her a second glance. Damon came towards her whilst the others started opening boxes and cupboards, rifling through what few possessions she owned. “Damon, please…let me speak with him!” Myranda begged.  
“I think it’s a bit late for that Myranda.” Damon’s voice was cheerful as ever.  
“What…what will they do to me?” Myranda asked, standing and shrugging her dress back on so that she could cover herself.  
“Use your imagination. For fuck sake!” Damon yelled as Myranda flung herself at him, clinging to his doublet.  
“Please, Damon. Let me speak to him! Take me to him! I’ll do whatever you want, please! Just…please don’t leave me in a cell!” Tears were welling up now as her imagination ran wild; images of all those hunts Ramsay had taken her on. How he raped the girls whilst flaying them, or he fed them to his dogs. “He won’t listen to you, whore!” Skinner said from his place by her looking glass. Damon untangled himself from her clutches and turned away from her. “Are you going to be finished soon or should I…”  
Myranda took her chance.  
She ducked around Damon and bolted for the door. “Fuck! Myranda!” Damon roared behind her. Pushing a serving girl out of her path, Myranda flew past the other rooms. Damon, Skinner and Luton thundered along behind her, cursing and demanding someone make her stop. They were still a way behind when she reached the stairs. Myranda did not hesitate, barely breaking stride as she leapt down them. If she fell, with any luck she would break her head open on the stone. If not, she still had a chance of reaching Ramsay.  
She survived the stairs and they had managed to slow her pursuers who valued their lives more than she did. Myranda continued to dodge and knock down the people in her path, though more and more tried to grab for her as it became clear that she needed to be caught. Somehow, she made it to the Great keep, where her Lord had begun to ascend the stairs. “My Lord! Ramsay! I must speak to you, please!” He turned and glared down at her. Had she not been so blinded by desperation, she would have seen that Ramsay’s look was uncompromising. “Please! It’s Myranda! You have to listen to me, please!” She screamed. Damon, Skinner and Luton grabbed her from behind and began to pull her away. “You must come with us now Myranda.” One of them said. The commotion had drawn a crowd by this time, but Myranda saw only Ramsay. “No! Please! Listen…” She tried desperately to fight but the three men, trained in fighting and practised at cruelty, over-powered her. “Ramsay! I beg you!” Ramsay turned away from her screams and carried on up the stairs.  
That was when Myranda saw her, standing at the top. Waiting for him. Sansa’s face was colder and more unyielding than even Ramsay’s had been. Her husband passed her without a word and, with one final grim look, Sansa turned and followed him. Knowing that her cause was lost, Myranda allowed the men to drag her away.

His master said allowing him to stand was a mercy, but it only pained him more. At least on all fours he could relieve his throbbing foot. Reek bit down the pain and continued to serve their food, pouring a second cup of wine for his master. It was not long before he had downed that one too. “What will be done with her?” Sansa shifted in her seat, bored of Ramsay’s sullen silence. Reek made his way around the table, his hand growing unsteady as he neared Sansa. She wasn’t paying any attention to him though. “Father might want a trial. I had Skinner and Luton search her chambers and they found some herbs that will prove she’s guilty. That and what you know. Though we’ll have to say she was a spy as opposed to her being jealous of you. We cannot let them know we were planning to use her.”  
“A spy? Whose spy?” Reek heard the fear in it, but his senses had been heightened. Sansa was very good at disguising hidden meanings. “Stannis of course!” Ramsay snapped, making Reek jump.   
“Of course. What is to be done with her after she is proven guilty? Will she be killed?” Sansa pressed on.  
“I’ll deal with it.” Ramsay muttered quietly, signalling for Reek to fill his cup again.  
“Our way is the old way. We should…” Ramsay’s hand slammed down on top of hers, silencing her. The room grew so quiet that Reek could hear Sansa swallow nervously. She did well to hide her nerves, fixing Ramsay with nothing more than a cold stare. “I said, I’ll deal with it. Wife.” Ramsay growled, digging his fingers in until Sansa had to bite her lip to muffle her cry. Reek shook as the silence dragged on whilst Ramsay decided whether to hurt his wife further or let her go. Eventually, he released Sansa. But she wasn’t done. “What is it that angers you? I had no idea you were so attached to your whore. Would you rather you got to keep your little cunt and be without an heir? Without the one thing that would ensure you got what you wanted?” Sansa’s voice made the room grow colder. Reek released a terrified whimper that no one seemed to hear. “You forget yourself. You are my wife. Not my advisor. I need your name and the sons you bear me. Nothing more. Do not forget that.” Ramsay’s gaze was murderous, but Sansa seemed to pay it no heed. Reek cried out as she stood up abruptly, sending her chair crashing to the floor. “I will return later. By then I hope you will not still be playing the fool.” Both Reek and Ramsay watched her storm from the room in stunned silence.  
“Wolf bitch!” Ramsay roared after her, sending his cup off the table to bounce across the room. Reek scurried after it immediately, hoping there had been no wine left to stain anything. “Reek, come here!” His master barked. Reek immediately turned and hurried to his master, kneeling down beside him. To his surprise, Ramsay did nothing more than settle a heavy hand on his head, fingering Reek’s matted curls. Reek bowed his head, submitting to the touch. “Women.” Ramsay muttered. “She thinks I am angry because my whore will be put to death?” Reek only whimpered in reply, knowing Ramsay wanted nothing more. “I’m angry because the bitch is so fucking _right_ all the time. Not to mention the…” Ramsay looked down at him then, a smile playing upon his lips. “I shouldn’t say it. It would be cruel to brag about the pleasures women can give in front of you pet.” Reek slumped against his master, resting his head against his master’s leg. “You might be stupid Reek, but you’ll never be as stupid as my Lady wife. You’d never call me a fool, would you pet?”  
“No master! Never! Good Reek, stupid Reek.” He chanted frantically, earning himself more gentle petting.  
“There’s a good pet. We haven’t spent much time together, have we? Would you like to spend some time with your master Reek, while my wife has gone?”  
“Yes master. I want to please you master.” Ramsay did not need to say the words for Reek to know what he needed to do. The voice in his head was silent and did not stir as Reek moved into position between his master’s legs.


	23. Give And Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But oh my heart, was flawed I knew my weakness  
> So hold my hand consign me not to darkness  
> So crawl on my belly 'til the sun goes down  
> I'll never wear your broken crown  
> I took the road and I fucked it all away  
> Now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace

She tried to ask as little many people as possible about the whereabouts of her handmaidens cell, but it wasn’t long until she found it. Guards had been posted outside a low tower. Its upper levels had been destroyed and only half a roof remained to protect Myranda from the relentless snow. If they didn’t kill her soon, the weather would do it for them. “I wish to see her.” She announced coldly to the guards. They said nothing in reply but obeyed her commands.   
Myranda was huddled against a back wall in nothing more than the clothes she had been wearing when Damon, Skinner and Luton had dragged her away. She raised her head as Sansa entered, tears still glistening wetly on her cheeks. Sansa wrinkled her nose as the scent of urine filled her nostrils. The girl had been given nothing in the way of comfort; not so much as a blanket to lay down on.  
“Go and find a blanket and shawl, as well as a chamber pot. And bring her some bread and warm ale.” Sansa ordered, never taking her eyes away from Myranda.  
“M’lady…”  
“Do as I say. This woman was in service to House Bolton. It is for them to pass judgement, not the weather.” The men said no more. One remained outside the door, the other went in search of the supplies. Sansa moved closer to Myranda who remained where she was. “Am I supposed to thank you for your generosity, _m’lady_?” She hissed. Sansa raised an eyebrow. Other than that, her face could have been chiselled from stone. After a long while, Myranda looked away, defeated. “Have you a reason for coming to see me or are you just here to gloat?” She asked, though the bite had gone out of her voice.   
“You are to go on trial for your offences and acts against House Bolton. Ramsay’s boys found the herbs you used in your chambers. That and my testimony against you will be enough to sign your death warrant.” Sansa informed indifferently. Myranda looked up at her then; more tears glistened in her eyes and she wiped them away with a trembling hand. “Why? I did nothing more than what was asked of me. What _he_ asked of me. You _knew_!”   
“I know. You should have been aware of what you were getting yourself into. Littlefinger cares little and less about you. You’re disposable to him. A piece in his game, and the game is always changing.” Sansa moved closer and knelt down in front of the shaking whore. “I thank you for what you have done for me. I want you to know that your death brings me no pleasure. You have done me no wrong. A casualty of war. I will speak with Ramsay and see that he is merciful.”  
“You have no influence over Ramsay! You might think you do, but so did I. He’ll tire of you and then he’ll return to beating you. Like he will me. Do you know what he does with his whores once he’s bored of them? Has your beloved husband told you?” Sansa stood up, frowning down at her. Myranda grinned. “He hunts them down. I know. I’ve gone with him. It’s good fun. Hearing the girls scream, the dogs howling and barking as they chase after them. Then, depending on how good a hunt they were, Ramsay will either rape them whilst flaying them alive or he’ll get his dogs to tear them apart. Nothing beats the sound of that unhuman scream as the pain gets too much.” Sansa did not allow her stony mask to slip, despite the revulsion she felt.  
“I’ll see to it Ramsay is merciful.”  
“You won’t, nothing will stand in the way of Ramsay and one of his hunts.” Myranda argued.  
“I will. As long as you say you are working for Stannis, not Petyr. If you tell them the truth, even Ramsay couldn’t devise a more painful death for his little cunt. Not without my help.” Sansa fixed her with a stony glare, forcing her to shrink away with nothing but her gaze. She did not turn away until the door opened behind her and the guard entered with the supplies. “Goodnight Myranda.” Sansa left, not waiting for Myranda to say any more. If the whore was stupid enough to admit she had been working for Petyr, she’d say she knew nothing of this conspiracy. Or that she was lying. Ramsay would not believe her, Sansa would make sure of it.

As Sansa turned onto the corridor leading to their chambers, she spotted Ramsay’s friend Damon coming towards her with the usual amused grin on his face. All the world seemed to be a joke to him. He reminded her slightly of how Theon had once been; smiling at a joke only he knew. Only Damon was capable of far crueller things than Theon.  
When he spotted her though, his face fell a little. “Lady Sansa.” She paid him no mind. When they passed each other, his hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her back. “What are you doing? Let go of me.” Sansa demanded, wrenching her arm out of his grasp.  
“Forgive me, my Lady. I just thought…I thought you were in there already.” He replied, his amusement slowly starting to creep back across his face.  
“Well I am not. Why would you think that?” Damon said nothing, allowing the sounds coming from her chambers to answer for him.  
Turning to look towards the room, Sansa recognised Ramsay’s grunts of satisfaction and pleasure. She had come to know them well over the past few days. There was something in the sound that pleased her; the knowledge that she was making him happy. Only it was not her causing these sounds. Not this time.  
Sansa looked back towards Damon for an explanation. All she received was that irritating grin and a “You have a good night, my Lady.” Before he carried on down the corridor. Ramsay grew louder and was joined by a painful squeak. It was easy to guess who was in there with him, but Sansa wanted to look anyway. It was not some morbid curiosity that drew her towards the door; nights with Ramsay were enough to satisfy that need.  
Pushing the door open slightly, Sansa peered in and held her breath. Sure enough, they were both on the bed. _Their_ bed. Reek was looking up at his Master; clinging to him as though he would never dare let him go. As though he would never _want_ to let him go. Ramsay looked down at him, sometimes lowering himself to bite the flesh, then kissing away the blood. After a moment, Ramsay pulled himself out of his pet and flipped the creature over so that he was on his hands and knees before inserting himself again. Sansa did not watch her husband. She kept her eyes on Reek. The creature pushed back into his master, keening like a whore. Begging for it wordlessly.  
Sansa recalled how Ramsay had done the same to him on their wedding night, only he had been rougher then. Now he was showing his pet affection, praising him for being good. Petting him and kissing him. And Reek would thank his master or beg him to speed up or slow down. Ramsay would always oblige.  
Sansa withdrew from the room unnoticed; trembling fingers pulled the door closed behind her. She was unable to go any further than three steps before her legs gave way beneath her and she crumpled against the wall; clutching at her stomach in an attempt to cease the sickening pain that swelled there. The sobs came and went without a sound. They were not caused by grief. Sansa had grieved enough in her life to know that this was not something to weep about.   
Why did she care so much?  
She realised then what she should have realised sooner. That whilst she had been trying to gain Ramsay’s attention and trust, she had come to _want_ it as much as she needed it. Reek had done nothing that she had done. He was too weak for that. Yet he had it all already.  
The night Walda had lost her child, she had screamed out her emotions. Sansa remembered them all; despair, pain, grief, shock, fear. She knew now what it felt like to want to release so many emotions. But Sansa refused to scream. She tensed, balled her hands into fists and clenched her teeth as it all ripped through her.   
Anger. Hatred. _Jealousy._   



	24. Notice Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've turned into a statue  
> And it makes me feel depressed  
> 'Cause the only time you open up is when we get undressed  
> You don't love me, big fucking deal  
> I'll never tell you how I feel  
> You don't love me, not a big deal  
> I'll never tell you how I feel

They donned their darkest clothing, linked arms and made their way down to the Godswood. All in silence. It was not that her husband was in no mood to talk, it was that he did not seem to feel the need to. He did not confess to her what he had done last night. When they had both been awoken by the servants coming in, Sansa had begun with “Ramsay,” but had finished with “Nothing.” She could not form the words.  
When she had returned to her rooms later last night, Ramsay had been sleeping in amongst the soiled sheets. Even her clambering in beside him had not been enough to wake him. Reek had been curled up on his usual place on the rug; his frail form rising and falling with each breath. The picture of sickening innocence.  
As they walked, arm in arm, out into the cold morning, Sansa continued to glance over at him, hoping to catch a glimpse of guilt. Though it shamed her to do so, she couldn’t help it. Ramsay never even seemed to notice her stares. It angered her more with each passing moment. He was _indifferent_ to her. She may as well not have been there at all. Even as the crowd thickened around them, he ignored her and spoke with the Lords. She would exchange a few words with them herself; ignoring their looks of surprise in order to check Ramsay’s reaction. Still he did not look at her, as though it were not strange for her to be talking with the Northern Lords. After all that had happened, she had been too nervous to speak with them in fear of what Ramsay may do. Now she wanted a reaction from him and he couldn’t care less! Her temper flared when he untwined his arm from hers in order to go and speak with Skinner and Sour Alyn.  
Sansa searched around for someone to speak with and distract herself with. When her eyes met his, she considered him for a moment. There were others she’d rather speak with, but now he seemed like the perfect choice. He frowned as she drew nearer, looking about him in case he was mistaken.  
“Damon.” She said curtly.  
“Lady Sansa.” He replied, bowing slightly.  
“Perhaps you would help me through the Godswood? The snow has made these paths treacherous.” She held out her arm expectantly. Damon’s usual look of amusement was marred by confusion. “Wouldn’t you rather be escorted by your husband?”  
“My husband seems to be preferring the company of men at the moment.” Sansa laughed light heartedly, forcing a nervous chuckle from Damon. “Come Damon, you are only walking with me.” She smiled. Damon’s familiar grin returned to his face and he tucked her arm through his. They followed the crowd in silence for a time, though it was not silent in Sansa’s mind. _Do not look at him._ She forbade herself from doing so.  
“Is it me or does it seem warmer here?” Damon asked, making casual conversation.  
“It’s the hot springs. There used to be pipes that carried it up into the walls of the keep so it was always warm.” She informed him, looking straight ahead.  
“It’s a shame that has been ruined then. We’ll have to move into the Godswood in order to survive the winter!” Damon laughed.  
“Indeed, though I am not sure the Gods would be too pleased about sharing their place with so many.” Sansa smiled as they passed the Weirwood tree. For half a heartbeat, she hoped to hear the voice again. _He’s dead. Ramsay said so. Theon lied._  
“The bastards will just have to learn to deal with it then! They’re the ones that send winter, they can bloody well protect us from it.” He jested. Sansa laughed loud enough, she hoped, for Ramsay to hear.  
They continued on in silence for a time. The crowd grew quieter as they neared their destination. “How did you come to be in my husband’s service, Damon?” Sansa asked pleasantly. Damon stared ahead grimly. “I was already serving Lord Bolton when Lord Ramsay arrived at the Dreadfort. I suppose we were too akin for me not to serve him.”  
“When he _arrived_ at the Dreadfort?” Sansa pressed, confused.  
“Yes.” Damon’s reply was blunt and without his usual humour. Sansa let it go as they neared the gathering crowd that had drawn to a halt. “If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my husband.” Sansa smiled at him as he accepted her excuse. When she neared Ramsay, he glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. She smiled a knowing smile and slid her hand into the folds of his doublet. To her dismay, Ramsay turned away again without a word.

The third cup of wine loosened her lips and made smiling a lot easier. Not that there was much to smile about. The funeral, as was expected, had been a solemn affair, and with so many Frey’s swarming the hall, the feast was likely to be duller still.  
Lady Walda had been buried in the far corner of the Godswood. Sansa had disliked that notion. It was no place for a Frey, but at least she was six feet under where the maggots could eat away at her. And what a meal she’d make.  
Musicians were set up at the far end of the hall, though each song was slow and sad. Sansa wanted to laugh and sing; to forget her silent husband at her side whom she wanted to please so badly. She even attempted to speak with Roose to gain his attention. “I am sorry for your loss, Lord Bolton. My mother told me my grandmother died on the birthing bed. The Gods cannot devise a crueller death for us women.” Her lips had been loosened greatly by then, but Roose did not seem offended by her words.  
“Thank you, my lady.” He said in his regular cold tone.  
“I suppose you will be looking for a new wife.” Sansa turned to observe Ramsay’s reaction. There was none. “Yes, as soon as Stannis is defeated.”  
“I pray she makes you very happy, whoever she may be.” Flustered by her failed attempt to gain Ramsay’s attention, Sansa raised her goblet towards Roose.  
“I’m sure she will.” Roose almost smiled, clinking his goblet against her own.  
Even that did not gain Ramsay’s attention.  
Following her fifth cup of wine, Sansa stood from the table and headed down into the crowd beneath without a word to her husband. “Ser Mychel.” He was standing by the far wall, a serving wench giggling and blushing beside him. He turned the moment he heard her voice. “Lady Sansa.” He showed no sign of irritation, despite how she had ruined his courting.  
“Perhaps you will dance with me?” She smiled sweetly and held out her hand.  
“It would be my pleasure.” Mychel took her hand and kissed it without hesitation. Sansa led the way to the musicians, ordering them to strike up a merry tune. Soon enough, a number of the knights took the hint and asked what few women there were in the room to dance. Many serving girls were offered the chance they wouldn’t have expected in their life time.  
“I seem to have interrupted a courtship.” Sansa laughed to Mychel, indicating to the lonely-looking serving girl that Mychel had been speaking with.  
“Actually, I had been hoping for her friend over there.” He replied, nodding towards another, much more comely than the last. Sansa laughed again, hopping gracefully from foot to foot. “Oh Mychel, you are a free spirit!”  
“Thank you, my lady. And I must say how well you are looking.” He muttered when the dance drew them closer.  
“Thank you, Mychel.” Sansa blocked out the memories of her first few weeks of wedlock. They continued on in silence until the song reached its end. Sansa curtsied and thanked Mychel. “You may go back to your courtship now.” She smiled.

The Lords flocked around her, as she’d known they would. She danced with each and every one of them, jesting and laughing. Sansa danced her way through the crowd until she reached her desired hand, though once there, she found it unwilling. “I hear many call you Damon Dance-for-me. Will you dance for me Damon?” Her smile was warm, her cheeks flushed. She knew she must look beautiful in that moment. Damon laughed nervously and glanced up at the dais. “My dancing skills are not where the name comes from my lady.” He admitted. She knew that already. “It is just a dance, Damon. You can just copy the others. Come, your Lady commands it.”  
With one final anxious glance at Ramsay, Damon stood up and followed her onto the floor. The song they were dancing to now was slower than the others had been. Sansa moved in silence, trying not to wince each time he stepped on her toes.  
“You are close to my husband, are you not?” She asked when they moved closer. Once again, Damon’s amused mask was gone. “Yes.” He replied grimly.  
“Then you know about his perversions with his pet.” Sansa hissed as Damon trod on her toe again, though this time it was clear it had been deliberate.  
“You must be very stupid to bring that subject up with me.” Damon growled, his light-heartedness gone. Sansa did not even tremble. “With you? Who should I ask then? Skinner? Luton?” Damon looked around, flustered. But he was trapped amongst the dancers. “Does he get you all to join in sometimes, is that it? I thought that sort of thing was only common in the South.” She snapped back.  
“You ask too much. Do you want to go back to being a meek little pet?”  
“No. Nor do I intend to. What is the relationship between my husband and his creature?” The jealousy was more apparent in his voice than she’d intended it to be. Damon pulled her closer so he could hiss into her ear, his hand dug into her back so she could not back away. “Listen here _my lady_. Make Ramsay desire you all you want, but you will never replace Reek. He _made_ Reek, understand? Do you want to be a pathetic little pet, or do you want to remain as you are now? You must shut your eyes and endure. Goodnight, my lady.” And with that, he released her; pushing her back a little so she was off balance. Sansa watched him go as she struggled to stay upright. Several had noticed her loss of dignity, but there was only one gaze she cared about. That familiar taste of anger and jealousy filled her mouth as she met Ramsay’s questioning stare.  
Blinking away hot tears, she tore her eyes from his and pushed her way out of the crowd, storming from the hall and praying that no tears would fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been kind of binge watching The Tudors, so if Sansa starts taking on some Anne Boleyn-type qualities that'll be why. Also I kinda think it works for her. Don't worry, she won't be losing her head any time soon!


	25. I'll Be Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be your lover, I'll be yours  
> I'll be your liquor bathing your soul   
> Juice that's pure  
> And I'll be your anchor you'll never leave  
> Shores that cure  
> Well I've seen you suffer, I've seen you cry for days and days  
> So I'll be your liqour demons will drown  
> And float away

The Gods did not hear her prayers.  
The moment she reached their chambers, Sansa flung herself down on the bed like she used to when she was upset as a child. The tears stung her eyes and burned her cheeks but the pain felt good.  
_You will never replace Reek._ Damon’s words went round and round her head.   
She didn’t want to become a pet again. She didn’t want him to be her master. She just wanted _him_.  
At the sound of footsteps outside, Sansa got up, not wanting him to see her so weak and fragile. The fireplace drew her in; its warmth spreading through her and kissing her sore cheeks. She stared into the flames and listened to Ramsay as he entered. He seemed to be moving painfully slowly on purpose, as though he knew every second she waited was a fresh wound. When he finally did start to walk over to her, Sansa’s knees began to tremble and weaken. What would he do to her? She had behaved recklessly. What would it cost her?   
She waited for the feeling of his hands tightening around her neck, or his fingers to slide through her hair and yank her head backwards roughly. But no such feelings came. Instead, his arms slid around her waist, drawing her to him. Sansa shook her head and tried to fight against his hold on her, but his touch made her weak. “Why did you do this to me?” She wept. “Why did you have to do _this_?” Sansa turned in his arms and began to pummel her fists against his chest, releasing all the anger that had been building up inside her the moment she’d seen him with Reek. “I hate you!” She screamed at him. “I hate you. I hate you!”  
“Stop it! Stop!” Ramsay commanded. The fight went out of her as swiftly as it came and Sansa found herself collapsing against him, unable to hold herself up any longer.

He could have let her fall. He could have pulled away and left her until she stood up herself. Then he could have dealt with her until there was no anger left.  
But he didn’t.  
Instead, Ramsay held her to him and smiled into her hair. “I hate you.” She whimpered again.  
“No, dearest wife. You don’t.” He argued softly. Now was not the time for harsh words, nor did he want to give them. “You love me, don’t you?” He pried, pulling away so he could see her face. Sansa continued to shake her head, but did not look him in the eye. “Why? Why did you do it?” Her voice was desperate and pleading, begging him to tell her. She expected it to confuse him. She expected him to have to explain himself. She did not know that he had seen her flee the room.  
“Oh, dearest darling wife. You’re jealous! Who’d have thought anyone could be jealous of my Reek?” Ramsay laughed, earning himself another thump on the chest.  
“Do not mock me.” She hissed. He had to laugh again at her anger, but he pressed his lips to hers in order to silence her. _Got you_ He thought as she melted into him. “And you…you…” She couldn’t say it. Love was too strong a word for her, despite how Ramsay threw it about so recklessly. “Of course, wife.” He assured, grinning. Sansa smiled; tears glistening on her pale cheeks.   
Then her look darkened. Changed.  
She leaned in until her breathing stirred his hair. “I want to conceive.” She breathed. Her fists loosened and she slid her hands down from his chest. Ramsay gasped as she slipped her hands into his breeches. “I want to conceive a son to be the living image of his father.” Sansa panted, running her lips along his jaw.   
“Then you shall have him, sweet, wanton wife.” He growled, lifting her and carrying her to the bed.

“Poisoned?” Roose raised an eyebrow. With her husband beside her, Sansa did not look away. “Of a sort. Moon tea, I believe the women call it. She’s been giving it to my wife to prevent us from bearing sons. Lady Walda shared the tea when she visited my wife the morning Lord Baelish left. That same night, you lost your son, father.” Sansa inched closer to Ramsay who she could feel was beginning to anger at the thought of Myranda and all the sons that had been lost to her.  
“And you are sure of this?”  
“Yes. My men found the herbs used in her chambers. The whore had a motive for it as well. She was to be my wife. Clearly, she felt if we believed Lady Sansa to be incapable of bearing sons, she may take her place.” Roose glanced at Sansa who smiled sadly. Such misfortune to befall a family, and all at the hands of a whore. “Do you wish for a formal trial, father?” Ramsay asked.  
“That won’t be necessary. We’ll claim she was spying for Stannis and you may do with her what you will.” Roose decreed before continuing to write his letters.  
“As you wish, father.” Ramsay seemed slightly taken aback by his father’s abruptness, but Sansa did not allow him to dwell on it. With a gentle squeeze of his arm, Ramsay turned and faced her, smiling, before leading her out the door.  
“What do you intend to do with her?” Sansa asked softly, sensing it was a sensitive subject. Ramsay just smiled knowingly. “I visited Myranda. She told me what you do with your whores.” She admitted. Ramsay did not show any signs of anger. Instead he seemed rather amused. “Did she indeed? And did it disgust you?”  
“They are just whores. What you do with them is not my concern.” She said bluntly. Ramsay nodded his approval. “But the North _is_ of my concern.”  
Ramsay stopped in his tracks.  
“I know you wish to have a hunt, my lord. But I _beseech_ you to consider this. The whore is a traitor to the North. To the realm. Her punishment should be the right one.” Sansa clung to her husband’s arm, imploring with her body. “ _You_ are Lord of Winterfell. If you wish to gain favour with the Northern Lords, you must do it their way.” Ramsay looked away, frustrated but she could tell he was considering it. “He who passes the sentence must swing the sword. I know this does not please you husband, but the way of the Lord of Winterfell is the old way. And your father is not going to do it, despite how it is his duty as Warden of the North.” Moving closer, Sansa stood on her toes so she could whisper in his ear. “He expects you to hunt her down. He knows it will upset the Northern Lords. He _wants_ you to do it.” She stepped away to watch his expression darken. “When we have secured the North, you may hunt as many whores as you wish.” Sansa promised him. The less whores there were, the better. “Very well.” Ramsay smiled, taking her hand in his and kissing it before they carried on down the cold corridor.

Her tears froze upon her cheeks, but her hands were too sore to wipe them away. Myranda huddled down further into the blanket and shawl, but it did little to warm her up. The cold had set root deep in her bones. There was no escaping the chill now. Fatigue had taken its toll too. When the bolts on the door were scraped back, she winced at the sound but did not raise her head. “So did your cunt do the trick?” Myranda asked, her voice dry and weak.  
“You will be executed tomorrow morning. Lord Bolton saw no need for a trial.” Sansa informed, her voice almost as cold as Myranda felt.  
“Executed?”  
“By the sword, yes. Ramsay will do it himself.” Her mistress stated as casually as if she were simply speaking of the weather.  
“Let’s hope his aim is as good with a sword as it is with an arrow. After all, I have only a little neck.” Myranda managed a laugh. Sansa’s face remained a mask of unyielding stone. “Do you have any final requests?”  
“I request you set me free.”  
“That I cannot do. Guards, move her to a warmer chamber so she may spend her last night in comfort. See that she is suitably dressed too.” _How do you dress for death?_ Myranda wondered, a laugh still playing upon her lips  
“I have thought of my final request.” She said as Sansa turned away. The woman turned back and met her gaze. “May the block be brought to me? I want to practise. I might be a whore, but I’d quite like to try being dignified before I die.” Yes. Dignity was what all the ladies in the stories had.  
“Very well. I will see to it.” Sansa managed a small smile. It was not full of gloating. Perhaps there was even some pity there. Before Myranda could dwell on it any further, the stone mask returned and Sansa turned away.

Myranda did not, in the end, die with dignity.   
The moment she saw Ramsay standing beside the block, tall and fierce with the flayed man of House Bolton across his chest, the whore pissed herself on the spot. She looked down in surprise as the puddle encircled her bare feet. Sansa wondered if she was the only one who noticed. She did not turn to check with the Northern Lords though.  
Myranda was escorted forwards; her eyes darting around nervously, trying to look at anything but Ramsay and his sharpened sword. When they finally reached the chopping block, she stopped and gazed upwards at the snow clouds that were forming.  
“In the name of Tommen Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the first men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm. I, Ramsay, of House Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and by decree of my father, Roose Bolton the Warden of the North, sentence you to die.”  
Sansa had managed to convince him against allowing her the chance to speak her final words. “A whore who is about to lose her head has nothing left to lose. What is to stop her from speaking the truth? From telling all the Northern Lords that your father conspired with the Lannister’s to fool them?” Sansa had pointed out to him. Of course, that had not been what she feared would happen. She feared Myranda would tell Ramsay of Littlefinger’s involvement.  
Myranda’s sobs echoed throughout the yard. Her once comely face was now marred by fear; reddened by tears. “Kneel.” Sansa heard her husband order. Myranda looked at him pleadingly for a moment, but it was not her hunting partner nor her lover she saw. It was Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North-to-be.  
Myranda did not kneel so much as allow her knees to give way, though a peace seemed to settle over her as she rest her head and neck on the block; sinking herself into it as though it were a feather pillow.  
Images of her father’s execution had come flooding back to her, though she had seen little through her tears. Lord Eddard had not wept. He remained as hard as the North when Joffrey called for his head. Sansa had wept all his tears for him. She recalled being held back by a member of the Kingsguard, though his helmet had disguised his identity. Her voice had grown hoarse from screaming at her Prince, begging him to stop. Then Ser Ilyn Payne had stepped forward, drawing Ice from its scabbard. And her life had been torn apart with one clean swoop.  
Unlike Ser Ilyn, Ramsay was not practised in the art of beheading. The first cut sliced into her shoulders. The second blow cut her head. The third was the final one, but Sansa was certain Myranda was already dead by then after the injury to her head. Sansa continued to stare at the headless body as it crumpled lifelessly to the ground. They held life so preciously, yet it took so little for it to be taken away. Like most precious things. Ramsay stepped back, wiping away the blood that had spattered his brow as if it were sweat.  
He turned to his boys that were gathered nearby. “Stake her head on the outer wall as a warning.” He ordered. Then he turned to look at Sansa, grinning madly. She took in the blood spattered cape and doublet as well as his crazed smile. Sansa did her best to refrain from blushing as the now-familiar heat flared inside her.   


	26. Dance For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the land of Gods and Monsters  
> I was an Angel  
> Living in the garden of evil  
> Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed  
> Shining like a fiery beacon  
> You got that medicine I need  
> Fame, Liquor, Love give it to me slowly  
> Put your hands on my waist, do it softly.

On the morning of her name day, Sansa was sat by the window of her chambers, working on her embroidery with new found zeal when her husband came storming into the room. “Damn the man!” Ramsay roared, slamming the door shut behind him. Sansa glanced up, regarded him coolly, then returned to her work. “He tells me to go to the meetings then doesn’t bother to listen to my advice! It’s as though he just invites me there to insult me. I say we send men to pick at Stannis’ army and intimidate them. What does my father do? He says it’s a fool’s errand. He called me a fool! In front of all the Lords!” Ramsay paced up and down the room like a caged animal. Sansa carried on with her embroidery as though he weren’t even there. “Are you listening to me at all?” Ramsay snapped, rounding on her.  
“Of course my love. You want to attack Stannis’ army. I agree with your father.” She stated bluntly, flattening out the fabric to get a better look at the full image.  
“You _agree_ with him?” She could sense Ramsay’s anger as it turned on her. Sansa glanced up, smiling. “Let him come to you. His army is made up of Southerners and Wildlings. The southerners will die from the cold and with a shortage of food it won’t be long until the savages turn on one another. Stannis’ army will destroy itself. Now, would you pass me that bowl of apples? I have a craving.” Sansa’s smile widened as her husband missed the point entirely.  
“Apples? I’m talking about battle plans and you start talking about _apples_?” He asked incredulously, sending Sansa into a laughing fit. “And what is it that you find so amusing?” Ramsay growled, his face thunderous.  
“Ramsay,” Sansa set her embroidery down and went over to him. Taking his hand in hers, she pressed it to her stomach. “I have a _craving_.” She repeated. He stared down at her still-flat stomach, his eyes wide and shining in amazement. It was that look of childish glee again, the one she had seen when he’d taken her down to the cellar. Only this time it made her laugh.  
“You’re sure?” He asked, running his hands over her belly.  
“I’m sure. Our son and heir is growing inside me.” Sansa beamed.  
Ramsay knelt down and kissed her stomach, then her lips with his usual savagery; all thoughts of Stannis and his approaching army were forgotten.

The news was announced at Sansa’s name day feast that evening. She took in each and every glimmer of hope that shone in the eyes of the Northern Lords. The child might be a Bolton, but he had Stark blood in his veins. The great hall was the merriest it had been for some time.  
“I would like to choose the name for our son, my Lord.” Sansa turned to her husband.  
“Oh would you?” Ramsay raised an eyebrow but he posed no threat. Sansa glanced at Roose Bolton who sat to her husband’s right. “I want to name him Eddard.” She leaned slightly close to her husband, placing her hand over his. Ramsay sat back in his chair. Nerves churned in her stomach and she clutched it protectively. “Eddard Bolton. That would please you, would it?”  
“Only if it pleases you.” She smiled, clutching his hand a little tighter. _Eddard Bolton_. Hearing him say it unsettled her somewhat, but it was too late to change her mind now. “Very well. What do you think of it father?” Ramsay grinned at Sansa knowingly. There was no way she would allow her son to be named Roose.  
To her relief, Roose’s lips twitched into a smile. “A most fitting name, my lady.” He said, before turning away to watch the dancers below them. Ramsay smiled. Sansa eyed Roose for a moment, unsure what to make of his reaction.  
“Lord Ramsay!” Sansa turned to see Mychel Redfort at the bottom of the dais. “May I have the pleasure of dancing with your wife? It is her name day after all.” He called light-heartedly. Ramsay’s look darkened slightly. _He is possessive of you_. “My love, Ser Mychel is a good friend.” She assured him.  
“Very well, but do not wear my wife out. She is carrying my boy you know.” Ramsay laughed, though Sansa heard the resentment in it. “Our little Eddard.” He muttered, just loud enough for Sansa to hear. The words held no warmth. They were a reminder. A reminder that both Sansa and her child belonged to him.  
Sansa said nothing as she stood up and took Mychel’s hand, allowing him to lead her to where others were dancing. “I believe congratulations are in order, my Lady.” Mychel said as they joined the dance.  
“Thank you Ser.” Sansa replied, smiling. Mychel danced closer. “Does Petyr know?” He asked. Sansa glanced around, fearing they might be overheard. “Of course he does not. I told my husband only this morning.” She kept smiling, speaking the words through gritted teeth.  
“You should send word to him as quickly as possible.” Mychel warned, his tone low and discreet.  
“He will know soon enough. This is no concern of yours, Ser Mychel. I know what I am doing, as does Littlefinger. Do not attempt to meddle in affairs that you do not understand.” Sansa hissed, unable to hide her irritation.  
“Of course, my lady.” All smiles were gone now. They finished the dance in silence and Sansa turned away from him, leaving him to bow to her retreating figure. It was not long before she was asked to dance again, although the invitation was unexpected. “Lady Sansa, will you dance with me again?” Damon stepped into her path.  
“That depends. Do you plan on treading on my feet then abandoning me in the middle of a dance?” She did not snap at him, merely gave him an amused smile.  
“What, like you abandoned your friend over there?” They both turned to see Ser Mychel looking lost and flustered.  
“That was different.” She insisted.  
“Was it?”  
“Yes. I waited until the end of the dance to abandon him.” Damon laughed at that, his customary grin spreading across his face.  
“So will you do me the honour of dancing with me?”  
“Have you asked my husband? He doesn’t like others playing with his things.” She smiled over at where Ramsay sat on the dais, watching them.  
“I have asked his permission and he has granted it. Now shall we start or are you going to delay until the song is over?” With no other excuses coming to mind, Sansa allowed him to drag her back over to the dancers.  
“Am I better tonight?” Damon asked, grinning down at her.  
“Well you are barely moving your feet, so yes. You have improved dramatically, Damon Dance-for-me.” Sansa laughed, spinning in time with the music.  
“As have you, Lady Sansa.” His grin faltered.  
“I’ve always been a good dancer.” She informed him, twirling again.  
“I am not talking about your dancing skills. A few weeks ago, you were too afraid to speak to anyone but your master. Now you appear to have great influence over him.” Damon looked over at Ramsay. Sansa continued dancing as though she had not heard. “Strangely enough, your miraculous change occurred almost as soon as Lord Baelish arrived.”  
“I don’t know about that. You recall how my husband had you all watch while he raped me in my mother’s dress.” She retorted, smiling a challenge.  
“And now you call each other ‘my love’, you managed to get him to execute his favourite whore and you carry his child. How did you accomplish all that without holding anything against him?” Damon’s dancing slowed so they could look at one another.  
“I have learnt to choose my friends carefully, and my enemies more carefully still. You would be wise to do the same, Damon Dance-for-me. Now if you’ll excuse me, _my love_ is growing jealous.” With an indignant smile, Sansa turned away from him and headed back to her husband; the crowd parting before her and singing their congratulations as she went.  


	27. Give Me Your Favour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All I ever wanted was the world  
> I can't help that I need it all  
> The primadonna life, the rise and fall  
> You say that I'm kinda difficult  
> But it's always someone else's fault  
> Got you wrapped around my finger, babe  
> You can count on me to misbehave

_A woman’s life is nine parts mess to one part magic, you’ll learn that soon enough…and the parts that look like magic often turn out to be the messiest of all._  
Cersei’s words would go round and round her mind as she wretched each morning.   
Sansa knelt upright again, sensing that the nausea was subsiding. “Bring me some apples please.” She ordered one of the maids softly, unable to make her trembling voice sound commanding.  
_The parts that look like magic often turn out to be the messiest of all._ It had not been until she had fallen pregnant that Sansa realised how little she knew about children and childbirth. The first morning she was sick, both she and Ramsay had panicked and thought there was something wrong. Ramsay’s angry outburst had not helped the situation. _He was just worried about our son, that is all._ He had gone into a rage, demanding she tell him what she had eaten and how she felt. He’d sent for the maester the moment he had calmed down, and the maester had informed them that it was normal.  
Even so, Ramsay refused to be in the room with her during her bedridden mornings; attending regular meetings or seeing to business in the castle instead. He had chosen maids to wait on Sansa so he did not need to be in the room with her, nor worry that she was alone. Sansa was never alone, but she tired easily of the maids’ mindless chatter. She wanted Ramsay to stay with her, but knew better than to ask it of him. Again, each time she watched him wordlessly leave the room in the morning, Cersei’s voice would invade her head; _Robert was hunting, that was his custom. Whenever my time was near my royal husband would flee to the trees with his huntsman and his hounds. When he returned he would present me with some pelts or a stags head, and I would present him with a baby. Not that I wanted him there mind you.  
_ No. Ramsay was not Robert. Not in the slightest. He _would_ be there for the birth of his son.  
_But if he did go hunting, he’d bring you back the skin of a whore._  
The thought almost made her wretch again.  
It was true that her husband had grown more distant since her stomach had begun to swell, but he still showed her that he cared about her. That she still belonged to him. At night, when they returned from dinner, he would undress her and kiss her swollen stomach and breasts. She could tell he wanted to go further but he always managed to prevent himself from doing so. Sansa tried not to think about where he quenched his desires, but any time she glimpsed Reek, jealousy and hatred would boil up inside her.   
Ramsay still shared her bed and guarded her through the night, informing her of the day’s events and listening to what she thought of them. Stannis was getting closer each day; his army slowly hacking its way through the deep snow. “We will march out soon, and kill the fucker before you can even see his host from the battlements. All you will see is the blood drenched snow. I promise you that, wife. Our son will be safe.” He promised her one night, clutching her stomach protectively.  
The next morning, word had come that Stannis was not three days from the castle. Ramsay had leapt from the bed and headed towards his father’s chambers to await instruction.  
Sansa waited for him, though he did not return until late that night.

Night had fallen by the time all the battle plans had been made, but Ramsay refused to give in to fatigue. Following his escape from what now felt like a dull meeting concerning what would prove to be a dull battle, he made his way to the kitchens. “Oh Reek!” He called out. The kitchens were in darkness, but Ramsay spotted his pet the moment he shot out from beneath a table and bolted towards his master. Ramsay grinned down at the bulging eyes that shone in the half-light cast by the torch in his hand. Reek gazed up at him adoringly. “We need to spend some time together pet, but best it is just you and me. We wouldn’t want to wake my wife would we?”   
“No master.” Reek replied, inching closer to Ramsay’s boots.  
“Come on then.” Ramsay led the way down into the cellar with his little pet shaking and whimpering behind him. He did not bring Reek down here often now. Since that time with Sansa, Ramsay had found no trace of Theon lurking within his pet. The girl had done a good job, but Ramsay did not wish to see it again. Reek was his to hurt and humiliate, despite what his wife might desire.  
“Listen carefully Reek. Tomorrow, I am to lead men into battle against Stannis.” His pet whined as Ramsay led him deeper and deeper into the darkness. “Are you listening pet?” Ramsay’s voice was dangerously soft.  
“Yes, of course Master.” Reek yelped nervously, scurrying desperately to keep up on his maimed hands and feet.  
“You won’t be coming with me. Why do you think that is Reek?” Ramsay waited for the reply, grinning at the nervous silence behind him as his pet tried hard to think of an answer.  
“B…because Reek is not a man? Master?” His pet squeaked.  
“Very good pet! Very good. You’re just my little bitch aren’t you? My meek little Reek.”  
“Yes Master. Good Reek. Loyal Reek. It rhymes with weak and meek.” The chanting continued as they neared the cross Ramsay had strung him up on before. Though this time, he did not tie his pet up. He had no need to. “Don’t fret pet. You aren’t here for punishment tonight.” Ramsay turned to face him, smiling. Reek scrambled forwards; throwing himself at his master’s feet. “Thank you master! I am grateful for your mercy.” Reek wept between kissing his boots. Ramsay let him continue. It was very rare that he fully appreciated and acknowledged his own work. Reek had once been Theon Greyjoy. A Prince. The future Lord of the Iron Islands. And here he was kissing his boots fervently.  
“You _do_ love me, don’t you Reek?”  
“Yes _of course_ master!” His pet stopped boot-kissing in order to look up at him; adoration replacing the fear in his eyes.  
“Good. You’ll remain loyal to me whilst I’m away fighting, won’t you?”  
“Yes. Loyal Reek. Loyal to his master.” The pet twitched and tremored, wrapping his thin arms around his master’s legs. Ramsay smiled down at him before pulling out the flaying knife; twisting it so it grinned at the trembling creature at his feet. “Master please! You said…you promised…no punishing master!” Reek wailed.  
“This is not a punishment, dearest Reek. This is for your master. I want to carry a piece of you into battle with me. A favour, if you like! That’s what ladies give their lords isn’t it? And you are more of a lady than you are a man.”  
Reek cringed low, whining when he felt the steel kiss his skin.  
“Now, you are going to stay very still so you can give your master your favour.” Ramsay cooed, sliding the knife beneath the skin on Reek’s shoulder.

When Sansa heard her husband returning from his meeting with the other Lords, she slid down beneath the covers; turning away from the door and forcing her eyes shut. Feigning sleep the way a child would if they feared being told off by their elders for being up late.   
She listened as his footsteps drew closer, along with a second set of steps that were completely without rhythm; more of a shuffle than a walk at all. _Reek. He’s with Reek._ Since she had seen them together, she had made sure Reek felt unwelcome in his master’s rooms. She would fix him with a cold glare that would make him shiver and tremble. It reminded her of how her mother used to look at Jon sometimes when their father wasn’t looking.  
Ramsay had ordered Reek to sleep in the kitchens as soon as Sansa had claimed the scent of him was what made her feel ill. That lie had been believable enough, the creature did carry an odour pungent enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. Though if Reek was coming into their chambers now, it was because Ramsay had told him to.  
She waited until the door was closed and the mattress tilted, signalling her husband had returned to her bed. His arm slid across her waist and over her stomach, pressing uncomfortably hard. He made no attempt to wake her and offer some explanation to his lateness or the fact that Reek was joining them. When Ramsay began to snore softly, Sansa opened her eyes.

His hairs stood on end and a chill swept over him. Reek burrowed further into the rug in hope of warmth, but it had frozen over. His shoulder ached and burned still, but that was the only heat he felt. Tentatively, Reek opened his eyes. She stared at him. _No_ , she glared at him. Hatred, anger and jealousy filled her gaze. When Reek began to tremble and whimper, master’s wife smiled and turned away from him; curling herself into his master’s arms.


	28. Your King Rides Forth To Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I die every time you walk away  
> Don't leave me alone with me  
> See, I'm afraid  
> Of the darkness  
> And my demons  
> And the voices  
> Saying nothing's gonna be OK

“Sansa.” Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice. The cold morning light filled the room, but was blocked by his face; illuminating his head like a bright, icy halo. Sansa moaned and stirred amongst the cool sheets. “I have to go.” She thought she heard him whisper. Sansa moaned again, dismissing it all as a dream. “Sansa.” Ramsay muttered more sternly, forcing her eyes open again. “I have to go.” He repeated.  
“You have to…go?” She raised herself up awkwardly, resting on her elbows. Ramsay nodded. “To battle, the men are ready.” He practically bounced from the bed and began to dress.  
“You are going now? Today?”  
“This moment. Stannis will never see us coming.” Sansa slid out from beneath the sheets; a thin linen shift the only thing shielding her from the cold. “Reek, bring me my armour.” Her husband ordered.   
“What is _he_ doing here? I’ve told you, he makes me sick!” Sansa snapped.  
“And yet, you seem well enough to yell at me.” Ramsay growled back. She should have given up then. She should have bowed her head submissively. But Sansa’s head was filled with fear and anger. “So you are to leave me here? With that _thing_?”  
“Careful, you’ll hurt his feelings! And I can’t very well bring you to battle, though in this state you would make even Stannis Baratheon tremble.” She heard the laughter in his voice, but it only angered her further. “Yes you will remain here with Reek. Do not fear. My father remains here too with reserve forces, coward that he is.” Ramsay stood beside the window as Reek struggled to don his armour.  
“Your _father_. Are you out of your mind? You are going to leave me here, alone and unprotected, with your _father?”_ Sansa’s voice was little higher than a whisper. She could raise it no higher due to her disbelief. “Do you mean to say you fear my father more than you fear me?” Ramsay turned to face her, his look darkening. Sansa’s wits returned to her and she covered her stomach protectively; arming her son against his father’s angry stare. “No, my lord. But…we know what your father planned. What he was planning until we saw to it that his plan was thwarted. I do not feel safe with him without you near me.” She confessed, moving towards him and blocking Reek’s path. Ramsay’s look softened slightly. “Fear not wife. He _needs_ me. He needs me to defeat Stannis so that he can gain himself a new young wife. By the time that is done, our son will be born. A son of House Stark and House Bolton. The Northern Lords will protect him, as will I.” He moved away from her then, turning towards his pet. “Bring me my sword, wife.” Sansa obeyed, chancing a glance at Reek, hoping to see him cower from her. He did not. Reek only had eyes for his master.  
Sansa had never held a sword before. She’d never needed to. The steel felt heavy in her hand, but well balanced. She wondered what it would be like to swing it. What it would be like to swing it _at_ someone. Her husband was to face hundreds of them. Sansa feared for him. She did not wish for him to fall in battle. She did not wish for her son to grow up not knowing his father.  
_Do I want him to be like Ramsay?_  
Yes. Of course. Ramsay was strong and fearless. And clever, in his own way, though he lacked the training she had had. With his strength, and her wits, their son would rule the North.  
She turned back to him, sword in hand, recalling a story her mother had told her once. “My mother was pregnant with my brother when my Father went to fight in King Robert’s rebellion. My father returned to her then. I pray that you shall return to me now.” She smiled, handing her husband his sword. Ramsay smiled. “I am not your father, thank the Gods.” He chuckled softly, viciously ripping the sword from its sheath. Sansa stared at him, trying her best not to let her annoyance show. The sword shone coldly in the light.  
_Heart Eater I’ve named it.  
_ “Would you like me to kiss it, my lord?” The bitterness in Sansa’s voice made Ramsay stop admiring the blade. He frowned at her. “To what?”  
“Kiss it. To send you to battle with my blessing. It may bring you good fortune.” Sansa’s nerves steadied as Ramsay lowered the blade. She lowered herself and pressed her lips against the cold steel.  
_You’ll kiss it again when I return, and taste my uncle’s blood.  
_ “Will you be fighting in the vanguard, my lord?” The frown returned to Ramsay’s face, but Sansa did not see it. She continued to stare at the blade, recalling the night when the Blackwater burned.   
Before Ramsay could reply or scold her for discussing battle plans with him, there was a knock at the door. “Come in!” Ramsay bellowed, sheathing his sword and eyeing Sansa; observing her pale face and haunted gaze.  
“My lord, the men are ready.” Damon informed upon entering. Ramsay nodded and fixed his sword belt. “Come back to me, husband. Come back to me and your Eddard.” Sansa stepped closer to him, conscious of Damon watching them. She pressed her lips to his, trying to mimic the savage kisses Ramsay usually dealt her. He did a little to help, but not much; distracted by the upcoming battle, perhaps.  
When she finally pulled away, Sansa was out of breath and close to tears, though she was not sure whether it was because she was sending her husband off to battle or that he had so half-heartedly kissed her, despite how it may be their last. Ramsay nodded approvingly and pressed a hand against her stomach. “Keep my son safe for me.” He ordered darkly before turning towards his Reek.  
Sansa watched as he knelt down to be level with the creature. As Ramsay gently pressed his lips to Reek’s forehead, Sansa looked away, unable to watch. She caught Damon’s gaze. His meaningful look forced the tears away, replacing them with the jealous anger that had grown all too familiar.  
“Goodbye Reek.” She winced at the gentle words.  
Ramsay stood up and glanced over at her. Her irritation and jealousy was plain to see upon her face. Ramsay’s amused grin remained in her mind. _He had wanted to see me jealous all along. He wanted to hurt me._  
She hoped that his wicked smirk was not the last memory she would have of him.  


	29. Loneliness and Lullabies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But don't you come here and say I didn't warn you  
> About the way your world can alter  
> And oh how you try to command it all still  
> Every single time it all shifts one way or the other

The days past by and it got no easier. The first night was the hardest; the space in the bed beside her felt as empty and as cold as the world outside. She commanded one of her maidservants to accompany her to bed thereafter, like Lady Margaery used to with herself and her cousins. But it was not the body beside her she longed for. She wanted the strong arms around her; the calloused hands spreading protectively over her stomach. She wanted him to pull back her hair and whisper _‘wife’_ in her ear, the way he always did.  
Sansa prayed every day for his return. She prayed in the Godswood, and even to her mother’s gods. She prayed to the father to watch over her husband, the crone to give him wisdom, the warrior for courage and skill for the battle that was to come, the smith for strength and the mother to show mercy and care for the son inside her. Sansa ordered the maids to sing hymns with her until their throats grew hoarse and they begged her to stop. She would have refused to eat were she not with child and had promised Ramsay she would keep him safe.  
The maids did try to raise her spirits. They spoke of the baby when they were not at prayer; complimenting her on her condition and how well the child was growing. Sansa gave them advice on how to perfect their embroidery and did her best to speak kindly to them, the way Margaery had with her cousins. They made baby clothes and Sansa had them sew on direwolves as well as the flayed man. The bolder maids abandoned the complexity of the flayed limbs and instead chose to just pattern the cloth with the sigil of House Stark. Sansa did not scold them for it. Sansa pretended not to notice.  
“We should sing lullabies to the child too, my lady. My mother said the child can hear you even in the womb.” One of her maids told her one day. That worried her. Sansa frowned as she tried to recall anything she or Ramsay had said that she did not wish for the child to hear.  
“I have one you might like, my lady?” One of the maids piped up, distracting her. Sansa’s head snapped up and she painted a smile across her face. “Then sing it to us, please.” She smiled, settling herself back into a chair. The maid leapt up gleefully; blushing with pride. She was a sweet young thing; fair of hair with bright blue eyes and a smile always on her lips. Clearly the youngest of the maids, she looked about with wide eyed joy.  
Sansa wondered how such a sweet thing had ever found her way into the service of House Bolton.

_Eyes sapphire blue, pale skin like the moon,_  
_with a crown of fire and gold,_  
 _You will be loved, this I know to be true_  
 _my sweet little baby girl._

“Boy.” Sansa cut in sharply. “He _will_ be a boy.” The girl’s giddy blush drained from her face and her smile fell away with it.  
“Of course, forgive me my lady. It was just a silly song my mother sang to me. I’m sorry.” She chewed her lip, close to tears. Sansa stared at her the way she would stare at a ghost that had entered the room. She was such an _innocent_. A naïve, foolish little girl.  
_Just like I had been._  
“And it is a beautiful song. You sing well. Did your mother teach you?” Sansa asked softly.  
“Yes, m’lady.”  
“Such a talent. You must sing for me more often.” The girl bowed and moved away, sensing the conversation was done. Sansa watched her go and sit with the other girls and begin to chatter excitedly.  
“I shall go pray alone for a while.” Sansa announced, the familiar emptiness returning to her. Her ladies stood and bowed, returning to their cheerful talk the moment she was gone.

It was not the cold that forced him to tremble so. Reek hobbled through the Godswood as fast as he was able, but he could feel the cramp slowly wrapping around his limbs. The cold seeped into his bones, even here where the air was warmer. He wondered how his Master was fairing, out in the cold without him.  
_Master is strong, much stronger than I. Reek, it rhymes with weak.  
_ He found her prostrated before the Weirwood tree; her forehead pressed against the dirt. Sansa whispered into the earth; her arms outstretched and fingers curling into the mud. The trees sighed and whispered back, but they were not words Reek could understand. He stared at her; trying desperately to shake the cramp from his remaining toes. He eyed the swollen stomach that was pressed against the cold ground. _She shouldn’t do that, Master will be angry._  
_It is for him that she does it_ An unwelcome voice spat back.  
_No. No not you. You go away!_  
“Lady Sansa.” Reek called, trying to drown the voices out.  
Her eyes snapped open and she glared at the ground. Reek whimpered as she straightened herself and fixed him with that icy gaze. He had done his best to stay away from her, but he knew master would want his pets to stay close to one another until he returned.  
“What do you want?” Her voice was weary, but she did not fail to put a cruel edge to it. Reek looked away from her, unable to keep his nerve if he did not. “Lord Bolton wishes to see you. He waits for you in your chambers.” Sansa stood up faster than any woman with child had a right to.  
“And he sent you here did he? Is that the way of it? The moment our Lord…”  
“N…no! My Lady…I just…I thought you’d want to know. S…so he did not…not surprise you.” Reek winced as his ruined teeth knocked against one another. Sansa moved towards him, clutching her stomach as though to remind him of her significance. He needed no reminder. She stopped beside him. She stared. Her eyes were filled with resentment, but there was no coldness there. She was grateful for what he had done, though she did not say it.  
Sansa smirked as Reek dipped his head, twitching. Reek tried his best to keep up as she left the Godswood. It was not hard. Sansa’s legs were unsteady and Reek feared she might fall. But she did not.  
_She is stronger than steel_ he thought. _But steel cuts both ways._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short, quite dull chapter I'm afraid.  
> The lullaby is called 'Elizabeth's lullaby' by Karliene Reynolds, if anyone was wondering.


	30. When The Devil Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How swiftly those who've made a pact,  
> can come to overlook the fact  
> or wish the reckoning be delayed.  
> But a debt is a debt and must be paid.

He was seated by the fire in her husband’s chair, but Sansa didn’t dare to scold him for it. He turned in his seat and regarded her with neither cold nor warmth. Sansa bowed her head and bent her knees slightly, dropping her hands away from her stomach, not wishing to draw attention to her fragile condition. “My Lord, to what do I owe this…pleasure?” She forced the word out through gritted teeth.  
“Leave us.” Roose Bolton’s voice was quiet, but it drove her maids from the room with a single blow. “You too Theon.” Sansa glanced over at the pet who eyed Roose warily. She had not seen such worry from him in a long while; at least not concerning anyone other than Ramsay. “Go, Reek.” Sansa urged.   
_He will not hurt me, he would be a fool to do so. I carry a child. A Stark child.  
_ But when the door closed behind Reek, all her courage went with him. Turning back to face Lord Bolton, she felt like a young girl again.   
“Will you drink, Lord Bolton?” She asked, breaking the silence.  
“If it please you.” It did please her. She poured two cups of mulled wine, glad that she did not have to refrain from drinking in fear of poison. Still, she did not drink until she had seen Roose do so. The wine was strong, painfully so. It dulled all the spices, but Sansa did not care. The strong wine helped to steady her quaking knees. “Please, sit down, Lady Sansa.” Roose ordered, gesturing to a chair he had had pulled up by the fire. Sansa sat as though the chair were made of ice. Roose stared into the flames, sipping his wine. They said nothing. Every moment that passed seemed to draw more heat from the room; as though his presence were draining the life from it.  
“They say the battle will be any day now. Is that so, my Lord?” She asked, wishing to fill the silence and drinking to calm the nerves that made her hands shake.  
“Indeed it is, my Lady. I understand you are praying fervently.” He replied, sending a shiver through her. The battle was coming. “What do you pray for?” Sansa met his gaze.  
_I pray for Robb’s victory and Joffrey’s death._  
That had been a long time ago. She had prayed for it every day, yet the Gods had listened too late. _But we are in the North, the Stark Gods are here.  
_ “I pray for my husband’s victory, and for the safety of my child.”  
Roose smiled his thin-lipped smile.  
“You should not waste your prayers, my lady.” His eyes locked with hers. Sansa wanted to hit him. Sansa wanted to kill him. He was no longer a fellow player. He was a threat.  
Somehow, she remained frozen to the chair The hairs on her arms stood on end. _I will not show my fear_.   
“What do you mean by that, my Lord?” Sansa asked, her voice cold and steady.  
“I have little faith in the Gods, my Lady. I did not mean to frighten you.” His smile remained.  
“You didn’t.” She insisted. “I should have guessed. A man who betrays his King and conspires with another to slaughter his own guests must have no faith in the Gods. Otherwise how else would he sleep at night?” She drained half her cup; fear sweeping over her as soon as the words had escaped her lips. Sansa stared into the flames, too afraid to look him in the eyes following her bold words.   
“Indeed. There are many things the Gods frown upon. So many rules to live by. Though they do not seem to consider the way things are done. A peaceful land, a quiet people. That has always been…”  
“Why have you come here, Lord Bolton? I doubt it is to lecture me on the subject of philosophy and government. I am a woman, I do not understand such things.” Sansa smiled sweetly.  
“On the contrary, I think you understand it all _very_ well. Better than my son. You’ve changed him. Calmed him, somewhat.” Roose turned back to stare into the flames, his smile not quite reaching his ghost grey eyes.  
“If you say so my Lord.”  
“But it is not enough. He’ll tire of you soon enough. Then you shall return to being his little plaything and the Northern Lords will return to despising him.” He never even looked at her. His smile never faltered.   
He was _playing_ with her; saying the things he knew would rile her.    
Sansa knew all this just by his small smile, yet it did little to cool her anger. “He will not.” She insisted. “I would not expect you to understand my Lord.”  
“I understand completely, Lady Sansa. But I know my bastard better than you ever could. Fortunately for you, I’ve seen to it that he will not be a problem for much longer.”  
He’d said it as casually as he would say it was snowing outside. So calm were his words that Sansa wondered if she’d heard them at all.  
“What do you mean?” She asked, trying to sound demanding and failing miserably. Roose looked up then and met her gaze. He cocked his head. “What do you think, my Lady?”  
Her words caught in her throat. Tears threatened to fall and Sansa forced herself to take another deep drink.  
“Ramsay is your heir. You would be a fool to have him killed! You have no other and no means to get another.” Sansa tried to keep the hysteria from her voice. “And what man in his right mind would allow you to wed and bed his daughter?” She hissed.   
Roose’s smile dropped.  
“What makes you think I must _find_ a wife?”  
The wine that she had forced down threatened to reappear.  
“You would not be well suited to widowhood, Lady Sansa.”  
She stood up sharply, ignoring the child inside her as he complained to the sudden movement. Her cup of wine fell to the floor; the deep red spreading across the hem of her dress. Moving towards him but too stunned to strike, Sansa glared down at him. “What kind of sick man are you?” She growled. “What kind of _monster_ are you?” Roose did not react to her raised voice; simply watched her calculatingly. He caught her wrist in his pale fingers but she snatched them away. “Ramsay will _not_ die. He won’t! No matter what you say or what you have done. What kind of man conspires to murder his own blood, then steal his wife who carries his son’s child?”  
“Do you think you are the only one who knows how to deal with that issue?” His gaze fell away from hers and settled on the now-empty cup.  
She wasn’t sure how long her breathing stopped for. There was nothing else she saw, nothing else she could focus on except for the cup that lay in a pool of wine.  
Blood. My son’s blood.   
She could remember the taste of the wine; how strong it had been. Overpowering. Covering the taste of mint. Sansa’s legs began to tremble and threatened to give way until she stumbled back into her seat. Roose stood up until he loomed over her, but Sansa could not bear to look at him. “Oh gods…oh gods…” She muttered the words over and over. Roose’s voice was distant and vague. “You have a good night Lady Sansa. Sleep well.”  
Sansa clutched her stomach and stared into the flames. She felt nothing. Nothing had changed. It were as though she were in some awful dream that she had forgotten was not reality. Only it was.

When the maids returned, it was dark outside. Sansa was still frozen to her chair, clutching her stomach. The moment one of the ladies touched her, Sansa let out a scream and lashed out. “He’s killed him!” She cried, clinging to one of the maids, though she did not see which one. The lady continued to cry out and thrash, refusing to go to bed. The maester was eventually called for. “My lady, you must calm yourself.” The man implored. Sansa did not hear him. “He killed him! My son is dead…please…please, get help, we have to save him!” She cried, clinging to the maester’s robes.  
“It is alright, my lady. All is well. Your son is well and growing strong. You must rest.” He insisted.  
“No…no…you don’t understand…” Sansa’s hands brushed across the cold metal of the maester’s chain. She stared into his old, faded eyes; seeing them clearly for the first time.  
Her expression darkened.  
“You.” She hissed. “You _work_ for him. You do his _bidding._ ”   
Before she could say more, the maester ordered for her to be taken to bed. Sansa was forced down into the soft mattress. She could feel her boy inside her, sleeping soundly. _He does not know. He won’t know until it is too late_.   
Begging did nothing to help. Sansa continued to cling to the maester until her mouth was forced open and Essence of Nightshade poured inside; just enough for her to sleep dreamlessly.  
Though her sleep was not dreamless.

The air was cold; numbing her fingers until she was unable to close them. Light illuminated their stone faces even though Sansa could not find the source of the light. She carried on walking and the light got brighter with every step. As the stone faces grew less disfigured, she had to squint and shield her eyes from the light. By the time she reached her father’s tomb, she was almost blinded.  
“You swore to avenge us.” Her father’s voice was as cold as the land he had ruled. “You swore.”  
“I know father. I’m trying. But please…I need help…”  
“You must avenge us. Promise me. Promise me Sansa.” She could not see him. Even his tomb was blocked by the light. Sansa searched about desperately, longing to see his face. “I promise father.” Sansa called. “I promise!”  
“Promise me Sansa. Promise me!” Lord Stark repeated the words over and over until they began to merge together.   
As the light swallowed her, a wolf began to howl.

The scream was nothing human.   
The maids leapt to their feet in an instant and filed into the room. The Lady Sansa was on her knees on the bed, her hands clamped between her legs. Sansa howled again as she pulled her hands away. She looked up at them with wordless despair, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to think of something to say. Her brow was furrowed and already glowing from sweat. Her eyes were wild and frightened, and so haunted that they were glad when she looked back down at her blood-stained fingers. “The baby!” The maids gasped.   
“No, no, no, NO!” Sansa screamed, pressing her hands back between her legs again in an attempt to quench the bleeding. But the red continued to soak through the thin linen shift. “My boy! My baby boy!” She wailed.  
“Get the maester!” Someone screamed. Inside, she felt her son move for the first time. For the only time. She felt him writhe and die inside her womb.  
_I will never hear him cry. I will never hold him in my arms. I’ll never teach him how to talk or walk or ride a horse._  
Sansa collapsed onto her side; her hands grew hot and sticky as the blood pulsed out of her. She gasped and squirmed as she felt her boy slip away from her.  
_I barely felt him_ she thought as the movement inside her ceased. _I didn’t even feel him.  
_ Somewhere far away, a war horn sounded and a battle cry went up.  
_Fitting. The men will bleed out there and you will bleed in here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I understand that the first four episodes of season 5 have been leaked. No I don't want to know what has happened until I am supposed to know **places halo on head**


	31. No One To Have And To Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You kill my only trust and it hurts  
> Say goodbye  
> I cannot breath, all turns red  
> My hate for you has grown strong  
> You see, I know what you said  
> No one to have and to hold

“Out of the way!” He roared as he charged down the hallways, pushing his way through knights and servants alike. The knights protested a little but he ignored them. “Let me through!”  
As he drew closer and the crowd lessened, Damon burst into a run. He wasn’t sure how much time he had but, at any rate, he did not wish to be away any longer than he had to. He had not wanted to come at all, but he feared what she might do if she was not told. Most likely, he would be blamed for it. That was not something he wished for, despite his loathing of the woman. The wrath of an influential lady who was also carrying a child was something he’d rather not face. In fact, he’d rather face another battle. But Damon would do his duty.  
Wounded and blood spattered, he stormed along the corridor towards her chambers, wondering what state he would find her in. She must have heard of their return, surely? Perhaps the baby was causing her pain? _How the fuck should I know?_ He himself knew little and less about babies, only that this one was important; now more so than ever.  
A maid was outside the door, pacing anxiously. Her fair hair was a mess and her blue eyes widened in fear when she saw him. “M…m’lord…you can’t go in there!” She stammered. “M’lord…you can’t!” The girl screamed at him, her frail body blocking his path. Damon took no notice of her except to shove her aside.  
The scent of blood hit him first.  
Maids in the outer chamber glanced up; surprise and fear spreading across their faces as they realised who he was. Damon did not notice their expressions though. Instead, his eyes took in the bloodied sheets they were trying to desperately clean. Wordlessly, he carried on through the room; slower now. In the bed chamber, the smell of fear lingered with the scent of sweat and death.  
Sansa looked up at him. It took a moment for him to recognise her amongst the soiled sheets. She was paler than the pillows she was propped up on. The moment her eyes met his, he saw something he had longed to see for a long time. It did not taste as sweet as he had always thought it would. The fear and sadness in her eyes left only a bitter taste in his mouth. He needed her to be strong now. He needed her to be strong and healthy with a son in her belly.  
“You lost it.” He growled.  
“No. No, it was not…”  
“Your husband lies gravely wounded. He has been taken and put into the maester’s care, though they doubt he will live for much longer.” Damon’s words were full of loathing. _How could she have lost it?_  
“My husband is alive?” Sansa gasped. Damon frowned at her surprised tone. “Yes, but he may not be for much longer. The wound is deep.” He went to turn away when his anger boiled over. “It seems your Gods heard your prayers after all.” He hissed, glaring at her. Sansa’s eyes filled with tears but Damon felt no pity for the bitch.  
“Take me to him! Please Damon! I can walk…please…I have to see him. I have to see him for myself.” She begged, slowly starting to climb out of the bed.  
Damon left her there to struggle alone.

Sansa refused help. She would not appear weak. Not now. Waiting until her tears had dried, Sansa allowed a robe to be pulled around her but did not have the patience for dressing, despite the handmaidens’ desperate pleas. Her husband lay dying. The one man that could protect her from what could happen. She’d run to him naked if she had to.  
Her feet were unsteady as she slowly made her way to the maester’s chambers. The people she passed looked at her with a mixture of pity and confusion, but Sansa pretended she did not notice. One recollection of what she had been through and her composure would fall to pieces. _Ramsay._ He was all she allowed herself to think about. _Ramsay will keep me safe_.  
He was alive, and as long as he was alive Roose could not touch her. He _had_ to stay alive. He _had_ to…  
When she entered the maester’s chambers however, the hope slipped away from her faster than her son had. Ramsay lay motionless on a table, but she could only glimpse him from between those gathered around him.  
“He came out of nowhere…” She heard Damon say. “One moment we were charging and the next…the soldier seemed to just appear behind him…”  
The creak of a floorboard made them all turn. Damon and a number of his boys glared at her. Roose knew better than to show his feelings. Sansa wanted to go to her husband, but she was afraid. She didn’t want Roose near her. The trembling took hold and she struggled to remain upright. Roose continued to stare at her coldly. Her tongue seemed paralyzed, her throat too dry to speak. Sansa wanted to scream the truth at them.  
Roose skilfully stepped aside, allowing her a glimpse of the wrecked body.  
It seemed to be an instinct for her now. Sansa’s hands went to her stomach in an attempt to shield the child inside her from harm. _He’s already dead_ she reminded herself.  
_Keep my son safe._  
“Oh Gods.” Sansa gasped. She forced herself to look at it, though the sight of it made her want to weep and scream and rage.  
Ramsay’s attacker had sliced through his right shoulder and Sansa was sure she could see bone beyond the blood. There was a deep cut across his chest too and she did not doubt his back was just as much of a mess. Skin had been sliced off so she could see the red tissue underneath; as though someone had attempted to flay him.  
“I managed to kill the fucker before he landed a death blow.” Damon said, though she barely heard him.  
_His face…oh gods…his face._  
Lord Tyrion’s scar had been gruesome. This was monstrous. Sansa was unsure what weapon may have caused it. It did not matter. It was there all the same. The gash travelled across his face in a red mess; going from left to right. His eyebrow was slashed in two and had sagged so that he would never fully open his left eye again. A small part of his nose had gone and his lips had been split. It had branched off into two strands along his jawline too, as though his face had been smashed, like… _porcelain_.  
If Sansa hadn’t cared so much, she would have laughed.  
“Well done Damon. The maester will see to him now. I must go and congratulate the men.” Damon nodded grimly as Roose turned away. “Maester! Send a raven to King’s Landing as soon as you are able. Inform them of our victory here and of Stannis’ wounds.”  
Finally, he turned to Sansa. “My Lady, you need to rest. You must go back to your chambers.”  
“Do not tell me what I _must_ do, Lord Bolton. I would rather die than leave my husband in the care of men who work for you.” Sansa spat instinctively. Roose gave her a cold look that would have frightened her were she not still staring at her husband’s monstrous face. The man continued passed her without another word and she ran to her husband’s side the moment the door had slammed shut behind him.  
“Please, Ramsay, don’t die. You _cannot_ die. We have not done what we need to yet. Please. Please don’t leave me here.” Sansa begged, running her hands across his bloody body; salty tears mixing with dried blood. “We can’t let him win. Not again…not again…”  
_Promise me Sansa._  
“Can’t let who win, my Lady?” Damon asked, frowning down at her. The rest of Ramsay’s boys stood behind him, watching her warily. Sansa had almost forgotten their existence. Fiercely wiping her tears away, she met their stares with a cold, commanding gaze. “I will not leave my husband’s side until he is well again, go and tell my handmaidens. I want two of you outside this room to guard him day and night.” She ordered. “Damon, tell the maester that if my husband dies you will make him dance until he has stopped drawing breath.”  
“And why should we do as _you_ say? We serve House Bolton, not you.” Damon growled.  
“I am a Bolton now. Do as I say or you will regret it. Believe me. Don’t think the death of my husband will lead to the death of me.” Sansa snarled back. They held each other’s gaze; challenging one another.  
“As you wish, my Lady.” Damon hissed through gritted teeth. The men glared at her as they passed but said no more. “And send Reek here.” The words had to be forced out of her mouth.  
“Reek?”  
“There is no one so willing to protect my husband as that creature, and no one my husband would rather have by his side.” It hurt her to admit it, but Sansa could not think of herself now. She needed her husband to protect her and would do whatever it took to make sure it happened.

Reek had not moved so fast since he had had all his fingers and toes. The moment Damon had told him, the pet had started to weep in fear. If his master died, what would become of Reek? Reek was nothing without master. Nothing. Reek was nothing to everyone but master.  
In his hysteria, he had bolted past Damon and any other person who got in his way, no one mattered to him now. No one but master.  
An agonised wail had escaped his lips the moment he’d caught sight of him. Ramsay lay unmoving on the maester’s table; the worst of his wounds stitched up and covered with poultices. But his _face_. He was almost unrecognisable. Reek wanted him to wake up and be alright, so he had done what he could. He had licked his master’s hands and forced his head into them; longing for the fingers to tighten and pull at his hair. He even spoke without being told to. Even anger was better than this.  
“Master, please! It’s Reek! Please wake up! Please!” He begged.  
“Can you hear them?” Reek span around at the sound of her voice. He had not even seen her. _Master, only master._  
“Can you hear them?” She asked again. Sansa stood beside the window. The world had fallen into darkness. Night had fallen. “Hear who?”  
The howl filled the darkness and sent Reek shivering.  
“Do you hear them now?” Sansa asked. Reek heard only one wolf howling. “My Lady, I don’t understand. Please…I’m frightened…I just want my master…”  
“Ghost…Nymeria…what was it? Shaggydog? It has been so long, I cannot remember. I don’t even know the name of Bran’s wolf. He hadn’t chosen one before we left Winterfell. But I can hear him. I can hear all of them. Can you hear them singing, Reek?”  
The lone wolf howled again and Reek whimpered, clinging to his master’s limp body.  
“I thought…maybe…I thought they sang for my husband. Or my son. But why would they? They are too late for my child. Ramsay will not die. They do not sing for him.” It were as though she had forgotten him. Her voice was sad and distant and as small as that of the girl he’d once known.  
_No. Not me. It wasn’t me. Reek, Reek…it rhymes with squeak, meek and leek…_  
Sansa closed her eyes and leant forward, resting her hands on the window sill for balance. She tilted her face upwards and parted her lips, as though she were drinking the air.  
“Jon.” She whispered. “They cry for Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't honestly think I would let Ramsay die at the hands of Roose did you? And during a battle against Stannis too! Shame on you XD  
> Good job he's got his loyal friend Damon.


	32. Threats and Loyal Pets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no point clutching at your rosary  
> You're always going to know what was done  
> Even when you close your eyes you'll still see  
> That you sold a son  
> And you can't tell anyone

Lady Sansa was true to her word and the Northern Lords expected nothing less. She was a Stark after all.  
Whilst the men celebrated their victory at the Battle of the Bloody Field, the Lady of Winterfell remained by her husband’s side with only Theon Turncloak, the Maester and occasionally one of Ramsay’s men for company.   
The Northern Lords, although confused by her sudden concern for her savage of a husband, were grateful for her absence. Following their return from battle, a raven had arrived from Castle Black. Dark wings, dark words. Lord Commander Snow was dead. Though a bastard, he had been Lord Eddard’s last living son. Besides, bastardy did not seem to mean a thing in the North any more.  
They feared what may happen when Lady Sansa learned of her brother’s demise. He was the last of her kin and rumours had already begun to spread that her mental health had begun to whither. The worst thing was that the Lords could well believe it. She did not leave the side of the man that they knew had abused her and raped her. They would never forget the way she screamed and how it had made their blood boil.  
She had lost the child too. Everyone had seen the affection she’d shown the child as well as the devotion she had begun to show the father. And now one was dead, the other dying and her brother Jon was dead at the hands of his own men.  
“We’ve seen this before. The girl might have Lord Eddard’s blood, but she is as much Lady Catelyn’s daughter as she is Stark’s. And we all know how foolish that woman became when she grieved. Brave, aye, but foolish all the same.” One Lord muttered one evening when deep in his cups.  
The wolves were gone.  
The Northern Lords were reminded each time the darkness gathered and they were forced to light a candle. Sansa, their last glimmer of hope, was slowly burning out.

The footsteps hadn’t even reached the corridor yet, but Sansa was wide awake the moment she heard them. Sleeping with one eye open seemed natural to her now. She and Reek took turns keeping watch, though they had not said as much. They never said anything at all, but as soon as Sansa woke, Reek would sleep and the moment he woke, Sansa would sleep again.  
They were both awake now though. It was dark inside the maester’s chambers and there was no moon to illuminate the confines of their prison. The candle had burnt out long ago. She heard Reek slowly creep around to kneel at her side. Both waited silently, side by side, in front of Ramsay’s sleeping form; guarding him as the danger drew closer.  
When the door breezed open, Reek released a feral snarl. Sansa refrained from doing the same.  
Roose Bolton’s eyes blazed like ice on fire as her raised the lantern he held. He entered the room without a word, closing the door behind him. “My Lady.” He did not smile. He did not mock. His actions were not threatening. But his very presence put Sansa, and Reek, on edge.  
“What are you doing here?” She snapped, fingering Ramsay’s blade at her hip; stolen in fear of this very moment.  
“I’ve come to see my son.” He said without a trace of fatherly concern. “Is he any better?”  
“His breathing is stronger and his wounds are healing. The maester says the worst has passed, but I can no longer trust his judgement.” Sansa growled, standing her ground despite the trembling of her knees.  
Roose continued to move towards them. Her hand tightened around the hilt of Ramsay’s dagger. Even Reek crouched low; preparing to pounce.  
Roose stopped. He cocked his head; cold eyes shining in the candle light.  
“Look at you. Lord Stark’s daughter, guarding my son as though you were his loyal bitch. What would your father say? What would your mother and brother say?” He taunted.  
“My mother would have done the same, and Ramsay had nothing to do with her death. Nor my brother’s.” She hissed, inching the blade out of its sheath.  
“You are comparing my bastard to Eddard Stark?” Roose Bolton almost laughed.  
“No, but he is my husband. I’ve told you what you’ve wanted to know, and now I shall tell you to leave.” Sansa pursed her lips and tilted her chin up defiantly. She would not yield to this man. Not this time.  
“I understand you have told no one of what occurred before the death of your child?” The words made her feel cold inside.   
_I will not weep. I will not weep for him._  
“Not yet. But I will.” Sansa vowed. The moment Ramsay’s eyes opened, she would tell him. And then there would be nowhere for Roose Bolton to hide.  
“You will not.” He ordered. Sansa ground her teeth like a horse fighting the bit. “I shall. What have you left to take from me?” She struggled to keep the tremor from her voice.  
“Everything. Your husband. Your home. Yourself. I could get rid of Ramsay in a tragic hunting accident. Then I’d wed you, bed you and put a child in you. You’d be taken to The Dreadfort for confinement, after all you are in a most fragile condition.” He smiled then. Before Sansa could argue, he continued. “The Northern Lords are all under the impression your mind is…weakened, somewhat. After all, you have been through so much.”  
To her surprise, Reek growled again. Sansa struggled for words and had to clutch the table that held Ramsay’s form to stop herself from falling. “Or perhaps I’ll just inform the Lannister’s that we have the real Sansa Stark.” He continued. Sansa’s eyes narrowed with anger. “So many crimes to answer for…regicide, infanticide.”   
Her hand tightened around the dagger again.  
“Where are your Gods when you need them?”   
Sansa launched herself at him, dagger held high above her head.  
“Come come Lady Sansa. Where are your courtesies?” Roose hissed as he twisted her wrist. Sansa cried out as the pain became too much and she was forced to let go of the blade. He threw her to the floor, ignoring Reek who was snarling where he crouched. “We both know you are not strong enough for that Sansa. Now listen to me.” Sansa looked up at him, blinking away tears of frustration. “You are going to do as I asked. You will tell no one of what occurred the night before you lost your son, do you understand?” His voice was as soft as a lover’s kiss.  
“Yes Lord Bolton.” Sansa bowed her head submissively. He turned away from her and began towards the door; turning at the last minute. The smile reached his eyes this time. “I almost forgot. Lord Commander Snow is dead. Murdered by his own men. I am very sorry for your loss.” Sansa’s tears froze. She looked up; a cold innocence froze her face. “I knew the moment he died, Lord Bolton.” She turned to look over her shoulder at the window. “The wolves sang to me.”  
As she turned back to face him, a wolf began to howl. Closer now.   
Sansa smiled softly.  
Roose’s eyebrows flinched into a frown before he turned away; closing the door and leaving Sansa to her songs.  


	33. A Child's Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And every demon wants his pound of flesh  
> But I like to keep some things to myself  
> I like to keep my issues drawn  
> It's always darkest before the dawn  
> And I've been a fool and I've been blind  
> I can never leave the past behind  
> I can see no way, I can see no way  
> I'm always dragging that horse around

The battle continued to rage around him. He slashed and parried at his enemy, bringing his sword down with all his might and lifting his shield to block the invisible blade that was cutting at him. But with each blow, he weakened. The shield grew heavier until he was screaming from the agony of trying to hold it up. He would have shaken it from his arm were it not for the pain in his right shoulder that had made it near impossible to strike out with his sword. A red mist had begun to invade his vision as he felt his shoulder being torn apart. He turned to look but saw only red. Gritting against the scream of agony, he forced his feet to turn. It were as though they were made of lead. One moved slightly too fast and sent him tripping back into the snow. He slowly brought the shield up to cover himself, like a small child would pull the sheets over his head in fear of monsters.  
_Weak, weak, weak_ the swords sang as steel clashed together.  
_I’m not weak!_ Ramsay wanted to yell. He wanted to stand up and teach them all a lesson, to make them pay for their words.  
But he couldn’t.  
Laying there, motionless and with the red mist darkening until it turned the colour of blood, Ramsay allowed himself to melt into the snow. _Am I just red snow now? A bloody mess soaked into the frozen ground. Snow. Even in death I’m still a Snow.  
_ From somewhere far off, he heard a child screaming.  
  
His eyes flew open and he was stunned to find that he had not fallen at all. He was standing upright; clear of vision and strong of shoulder. Before him stretched a river. The cold sunlight danced across the lazy current. Behind him, a forest loomed; dark and threatening. It did not intimidate him. _I am not weak._  
The child screamed again.  
Ramsay turned and looked downstream, grinning at the fearful cry. There was something so satisfying about a scream.  
The next voice made his grin freeze and turned his blood to ice.  
“Wretched bastard! How many times must I try to make you understand!”   
“No! Mother, please don’t!” The boy wailed in vain. Once again, she shoved his head down beneath the icy water. Ramsay could almost feel the cold soak through his skin and seep into his bones. “You disgust me boy! You’re a monster! Even your own father doesn’t want you _bastard_. Your father didn’t even mean for you to happen _bastard_ , yet I get left with you all the same!” She screamed at him, yanking him back up so he could gasp for air.  
Ramsay opened his mouth, gulping and feeling the air freeze his throat, so cold it pained him. The world began to spin around him as the boy was thrust down again. He felt the water fill his lungs, making it impossible for him to breathe. Ramsay’s vision blurred as the water reached his eyes. The world around him warped and twisted. The trees that had loomed so threateningly behind him now stretched to circle around him. Enclosing him.  
The woman yanked the boy out of the water again.  
“You make me sick! How could I have ever born a child as monstrous as you?”  
Ramsay gasped for breath but found he had no need to. The water in his lungs had gone and his vision had cleared. Even when the boy’s face was submerged again, his eyes and lungs did not fill with water. Ramsay let out a small laugh of relief.  
“Mother, please! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” The boy begged. Ramsay frowned. It was not a voice he recognised.   
“You are just like him, aren’t you? Just like your monster of a father? You’re just a _bastard_ aren’t you? I should cast you out and name you Snow, just like him!” Ramsay’s eyes widened. He was too shocked to be angry.   
His feet crushed the dead leaves beneath his feet as he stormed towards them. Sansa did not hear him and forced their son’s head down into the pool once more. “Sansa, stop it!” Ramsay roared. She turned. Her cold blue eyes held no warmth; none of the adoration and devotion he had come to relish could be found there.  
She began to laugh. She _laughed_ as their son’s small body thrashed against the earth, fighting her hold in a desperate bid to escape. To breathe again. “Let him go! Please, let him live!” He did not mean to plead and beg for her, but his voice was not his. It belonged to something he had long detached himself from. Grief. Fear.  
“He’s a bastard you know.” Sansa laughed. “A bastard just like _you.”_  
The boy’s body went limp. Ramsay tried to take a step forward but his feet were swept from under him.  
Once again, he was lying on his back; sinking into the cold earth.  
The Weirwood tree glared down at him.  
_Ramsay_ it whispered.  
_Ramsay.  
Ramsay.  
Ramsay.  
  
_ “RAMSAY!”  
His eyes snapped open and he stared up at the face above him. Thankfully, it was not the ominous gaze of the Weirwood tree.  
“Gods be good, you’re alive!” Damon gasped. Ramsay groaned, flinching as his friend’s every word beat at his head like a war hammer. “I knew you were too stubborn for death!” His friend joked. Ramsay managed the weakest of smiles. His smile widened when he felt something stir beneath his fingertips.  
“I know you are there Reek. Are you trying to hide from me?” The pet immediately leapt up so Ramsay could see him. Reek cried out at the sight of him; half from relief, half from horror. The look of fear on his face hurt more than the clanging in his skull. “What is it pet? You aren’t afraid of me are you?” He asked, frowning.  
“N…no master.” Reek lied. Ramsay grabbed him roughly by the neck; biting back a cry off pain as he felt a stitch rip in his shoulder. “Do you think you can lie to me pet? Do you?” He roared. If Reek was frightened before, he was almost ready to piss himself now.  
Ramsay hardly seemed to see his pet. The red fog slowly began to creep back into his vision. He didn’t even notice his hand start to tighten around Reek’s throat. He didn’t hear Reek’s frantic breaths. He didn’t see the desperate, bulging eyes.  
“Ramsay…Ramsay! That’s enough!” Damon’s voice cut through and Ramsay loosened his grip; eyes widening as he watched his pet gasp for air. Frightened tears filled his pet’s eyes. “Reek…pet…I’m…”  
“What’s going on?” Her voice was slurred and croaky from sleep. Sansa sat up and appeared beside him. Ramsay released his pet and moved his hands so that they gripped the table. He stared up at the ceiling.  
“Ramsay? Oh gods…my husband…you live!” She cried. Sansa reached down to take his hand. Ramsay dug his fingers into the wood. Slowly, he turned to look at her.  
“Where is my son?” He asked.  
Sansa’s face fell. She slumped back on her seat, allowing her hand to fall away from his. Her lips quivered and she bit down on them so hard he was sure she’d draw blood.  
“I lost the baby.” Her voice was barely a whisper.   
She couldn’t even look him in the eyes when she said it. Ramsay did not allow his gaze to wonder. He fought back the red mist, knowing that his angry stare was enough to frighten the weak, murderous little creature.  
“You murdered my boy.” Ramsay hissed through gritted teeth.  
“No! My Lord…please, let me explain…you don’t understand…I didn’t do…”  
“Damon, escort my wife to her chambers. Make sure she stays there until I am well again.” Ramsay ordered, his anger ebbing away with every word. _I am not weak. I just need rest.  
_ Sansa’s eyes widened with fear. She did not want to be away from him. He felt her cold hand clutch his so hard that Damon had to pry her fingers off.  
“My Lord, please. I can’t…please, you have to understand. I did nothing!” Ramsay turned his head away from her, reaching out his hand for Reek to lean into.  
“Ramsay, please…for the love you bore our child…for the love of our son, have mercy!” Sansa cried.  
“My Lady, this way.” He heard Damon mutter gruffly.  
“I loved you! My Lord, I loved you! And I love you still. Please…another chance…I beg of you, please, just one more…”  
“GET HER OUT OF HERE NOW!” Ramsay screamed, desperate to make it stop. To make _her_ stop.  
As Sansa’s begging receded, Ramsay called for the maester. “Get me the strongest thing to make me sleep and you’d better pray to the Gods that it works. If I have one dream, man, one dream and I’ll flay your hands.” Ramsay growled.  
He drank what the maester gave him and laid back down as his muscles began to slacken. Sleep closed in on him just as he felt the tears prick his eyes.     


	34. Ivory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will you look at me?  
> Take a good look at me and tell me who  
> It is that I am.  
> This old mirror it is broken,  
> There's too much drift in the dam.

Damon did not drag her to her chambers as she was sure he longed to do. His hand kept firm hold of her elbow, but that was the only contact he made. _Is he afraid that the Stark luck is infectious?_  
She was led past Lords and servants alike. The servants stared at her as though she had just stepped out of a story. The Lords smiled but looked away quickly.  
“You must be very pleased Damon. My husband wakes and immediately sends me from the room.” She whispered once the corridors they walked through were quieter. “He wants to be left alone with just you and Reek. What am I to make of that?” There was venom in her voice now.  
“You were told to protect his son. You failed. You killed him.” Damon replied, not even bothering to look at her. Sansa wrenched her arm out of his grasp and rounded on him. “I did not. I loved that child. I still do. You could never understand. He was _mine_. He might have been Ramsay’s too, but Ramsay saw him only as a way of protection. I didn’t. He was my son. My Eddard. My own. In this world, women have nothing of their own. But that child was _mine_ …” _And someone took him away from me._ Sansa choked the words back. She swallowed nervously; fear balling up deep inside her. “Just…just promise me. Do not leave him alone. Reek must always be with him, and you too, if you can. No one else. No one. Not even the maester.”  
Damon studied her for a moment; his face frozen. Sansa did not allow her gaze to waver.  
“Move.” He ordered gruffly. Sansa obeyed. She was too tired to fight him.   
_  
_ When she was shoved back into her chambers, Damon did not wait to see if she had any more words for him. The door slammed shut before she could even turn to face it. The room was empty and cold. No doubt she had not been expected to return today. How long had she been gone? A week? Two weeks? Months?  
Not too long to forget what had happened here.  
Sansa stared towards the fireplace, recalling her meeting with Roose. The chairs had been moved to their original positions, but Sansa could have sworn there still remained a wine stain on the stone floor from where she had dropped her goblet.  
Sansa blinked, waiting for the tears to come.  
None did.  
She turned to look at the bed where she had paid for her schemes; where her child had paid for her schemes. _Does his life’s blood still stain the sheets?_ On pulling back the covers, it appeared it did not. It were as though he had never been…  
And still the tears would not come.  
Slumping down on the mattress, Sansa stared ahead of her and saw nothing. Deep in thought, she played with the covers absent mindedly. What was she to do now? She could not grieve anymore.   
_Mourning for too long weakens you. Better to find a more useful way to channel your grief_.  
“But what can I do?” She asked him, her brow furrowing in frustration.  
_Damage control_ Petyr whispered back.  
“I must wait. Bide my time. Ramsay is weak, for now at least, he cannot protect me while he is weak. And I am confined to my chambers. I must wait here. Then we shall see. We shall see…”  
“My Lady?” Sansa’s head snapped up so fast she had to bite back pain, but it was only the fair haired handmaiden. “My Lady, are you well?” The girl asked, moving towards her tentatively.  
“Yes.” Sansa replied absently. The look on the girl’s face made her correct herself. “I’m sorry, I am just distracted. That is all.” Still the girl did not look convinced.  
_The Northern Lords are under the impression your mind is…weakened._  
Sansa forced a smile and moved over to the timid girl slowly so as not to frighten her. She took her hands in her own. “Forget what you have heard, sweet girl. I am well. My husband is alive and strong. All shall be well. All manner of things _shall_ be well.” The words were said to convince them both. The child smiled up at her. She was even sweeter when she smiled. “I am so glad to hear it, my lady.” The smile disappeared and she glanced tentatively over her shoulder. “My lady, I was strictly told to come here and ask only if there was anything you need. I was told to say nothing more.” The girl admitted with fear in her pretty eyes.   
Sansa squeezed her hands comfortingly.  
“What is your name, child?”  
“Aleia, my lady.”  
“Well Aleia, it doesn’t look like I’ll be going anywhere to confess your crimes anytime soon.” Aleia laughed nervously. “I will have some wine, and…Gods, what time is it?”  
“Morning, my lady.” The girl giggled.  
“Some breakfast would do me good, I think.” Sansa smiled. It was genuine this time. The girl’s happiness was infectious and it felt good to smile again.   
“Very well my lady, I shall have it brought to you.” Aleia curtseyed and left the room.  
Unable to think of anything better to do with herself, Sansa knelt beside the bed and clasped her hands together. There was no Weirwood, nor any figures of the Seven, but it felt as though she were doing something all the same. The Gods had not saved her son, but they had saved her husband and whilst confined in her chambers, it was the best she could do.  
Praying was not the same alone; she longed to hear her ladies sing around her and to fill the room with their sweet songs. Instead, she only heard two men approach her chambers. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat until she recognised the voices of Skinner and Sour Alyn. They remained outside her door, clearly on guard in case she attempted to escape. _Ramsay has ordered them to be there._ The thought was some small comfort.   
Moments later, the door opened and a scrawny young serving girl entered, struggling to carry a tray laden with food as well as a jug of wine. “Where is Aleia?” Sansa asked. The girl had brightened the room with her presence. She would much prefer her than this sullen looking thing.   
The scrawny girl just shrugged and set the tray down on the table. Then she turned to go.  
“No! Wait, please stay.” Sansa wanted some company, just for a while. The girl slowly turned to face her and Sansa could have sworn she recognised her. “Will you pray with me?” Sansa asked, eyes narrowing as she tried to place her.  
“Not my Gods, m’lady.” The serving girl muttered.  
“I pray to both! The old and the new.” She insisted.  
“They aren’t my Gods. And I’ve been told not to speak to you!” The serving girl snapped. Sansa was too taken aback to scold her. Chewing her lip fearfully, the girl fled the room.  
“Vile little urchin.” Sansa muttered, staring at the closed door angrily. The scent of food filled her nostrils and Sansa prowled towards the table, her stomach aching from hunger.  


	35. What I Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What I fear and what I try,  
> The words I say and what I hide  
> All the pain, I want it to end  
> But I want it again  
> And it finds me  
> The fight inside is coursing through my veins  
> And it's raging  
> The fight inside is breaking me again

“My Lord, I do believe she was telling the truth.” Damon confessed, gritting his teeth as Ramsay shifted his full weight onto his shoulder.  
“The truth…about what…” Ramsay hissed through the pain, wincing in both agony and concentration.  
“About…argh! My Lord, are you sure you’re ready for this?” He asked, struggling beneath the full weight of his friend. Damon was strong, without a doubt, but Ramsay was solid muscle. “Of course I’m sure! Help me up!” Ramsay snapped, grinding his teeth and biting back the pain as Damon hauled him onto a feet.  
They lasted a full three seconds before Ramsay collapsed back onto the cot.  
“Fuck it!” He roared, downing what remained of the milk of the poppy and flinging the cup so it shattered against the far wall, sending Reek flying beneath the table to shelter himself. Ramsay was easily angered these days, and with no one else weak enough to take his rage out on, Reek tended to bear the brunt of his fury.  
“My Lord, about the Lady Sansa…”  
“What about her?” Ramsay growled, inspecting his wounds to see if any of the stitches had come out. Avoiding eye contact, Damon noted.   
“You know I have little care for the woman…”  
“Careful Damon. That woman is still my wife.” Ramsay reminded him in a low, dangerous tone.  
“Of course, My Lord. I simply meant that, whilst I am not a close acquaintance of hers, her words did seem sincere. She loved that child. Your son. She said that in this world, women have little of their own. But that child was her own. I do not believe she would have killed him.” It hurt him to say so and his face had gone red from the embarrassment it caused him. Ramsay grunted and leaned back to rest on his hands; wincing as the stitches in his shoulder resisted. “She didn’t want the boy to live. I _dreamt_ it Damon. I saw her kill him.” He insisted, his eyes glazing over as though he were seeing it again.  
“My Lord that was a dream. A dream caused by fever; you were sick. Nearer to death than any man I’d seen before. But Sansa’s words were real. She remained by your side with Reek the entire time, never leaving this room. The Northern Lords believed she had gone mad with grief. I have heard that whilst you were away, she prayed fervently. Both for you and the health of your son.”  
“I ordered her to protect him Damon. _Protect him._ You were there. You heard me.” Ramsay’s face had gone red from anger, but Damon saw the look in his eye. The look of loss and frustration.  
“I’m sure she did her best, but some things cannot be helped. There will be other sons to follow, I am sure. You are both young and soon you will have your strength back. Then we can go for a hunt too. I’m sick of this fucking room. You said that you could hunt some whores when the North was secured. Stannis is dead or dying. The North is as secure as it could be.” Damon grinned his familiar, boyish grin. Ramsay smiled back and yanked Damon down to sit next to him, slinging an arm around his broad shoulders. “Damon, you are brighter than you look. You are quite right. Now, help me try to stand again. I’m as tired of these dull walls as you are and threatening the maester is beginning to lose its charm!” The two men laughed and got back to their task.

Reek remained beneath the table as his master howled in pain. He had learnt after the last time. Ramsay’s screams had frightened him so, he’d thought his master was dying. When he rushed to help, he’d gotten in the way; earning himself a savage kick in the ribs, resulting in at least three of them being broken. That had not been the end of it though. Master had immediately ordered for Damon to fetch his whip and strike Reek ten times for doing something his master had not asked of him. Reek had known better than to say he had only done it out of fear for his master.  
“Reek, come out. He’s sleeping.” Damon called. Reek immediately obeyed and scrambled over to his master’s makeshift bed. He was safe with his master like this. He knew master did not mean to lash out and hurt him, but sometimes it made him feel like he did not matter to master. He meant as much to Ramsay as the cup he had thrown against the wall did. And if Reek didn’t matter to Ramsay, Reek didn’t matter to anyone.  
“He’ll be back to normal soon Reek. You’ll see.” Damon moved over to where the cup had shattered on the floor and began to pick up the pieces. Reek stared down at his master. Even in sleep he frightened him some. The scar had not healed well and gave his face a disjointed, lopsided look. It was worse when his eyes were open. Master’s eyes were still the same ghost grey, only now they were rimmed with red. Two chips of ice drowning in bloody pools. Master’s gaze was monstrous now, even if he did not intend for it to be. Reek did not know if, when the time came, he would be able to look his master in the eyes as he so often demanded. He would ask it of him if he suspected Reek was lying. If Reek could not do it, master would flay him or take away another finger or toe. He would confess then. He would tell him the truth.  
“Did Lady Sansa really say that? About master’s child?” Reek blurted, looking over at Damon and trembling in fear of his own boldness. Damon looked up from his cleaning and frowned. “Yes.” Reek glanced away and continued staring at his Lord and Master. “Why? What is it to you Reek?” He had to grip his hands tight to stop them from shaking.  
“I didn’t know she cared so much.” It wasn’t a complete lie. That made the words come out easier. Damon went back to his work; dumping the broken remnants on the table once he was done and coming to sit on the other side of Ramsay.  
“Why do you stay Damon? It is never Skinner or Sour Alyn or any of the others.” He continued studying his master’s mutilated face; trying desperately to grow used to it and failing miserably.   
“You are full of questions tonight Reek.” Damon observed, sending Reek’s hands to nervous shaking once more.  
“Does he frighten you? You spend most of your days hiding under tables now.” Damon added.  
“I asked you first.” Reek mumbled.  
“You forget who wields the whip Reek. You’re a funny creature but don’t go thinking I won’t think twice about telling your master about your lip.” Damon scolded. Reek’s eyes widened with fear. With his master in this state, what would he let Damon do to him?  
“I’m sorry Damon…please…I’m so…”  
“Lady Sansa told me I should never leave him alone. She tried to make me promise.” Damon confessed.  
Reek stayed as still as he was able, trying desperately not to give anything away.  
“Why would she say that Reek? Does someone want to hurt him?”  
Reek leapt away from the table.  
“I have to go. Master will want food when he wakes. I need to go and tell the kitchens.” He threw over his shoulder, shuffling over to the door as fast as he could in his panic. Damon would know there was something wrong now, but Reek could not tell him. Reek would not tell him.  
_If I tell him, Roose would have master killed._  
Then what would remain for Reek?  
“Nothing.” He answered aloud. Staggering down the corridor, Reek repeated the word to himself over and over. “Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.”


	36. Love Me Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Looking up from underneath  
> Fractured moonlight on the sea  
> Reflections still look the same to me  
> As before I went under  
> And it's peaceful in the deep  
> Cathedral where you cannot breathe  
> No need to pray, no need to speak

The sound of the bath tub being rolled down the hall interrupted her prayers. She stood up, frowning. A bath had not been requested.  
The serving girl kicked the door open and cursed as it slammed shut again before she could roll the tub in. Eventually, Aleia must have squeezed past the tub to open the door for her. The handmaiden smiled at Sansa and filled the room with summer. “I did not ask for a bath today?” Sansa said, smiling back at her.  
“No my lady. Your husband did!” The sweet girl squealed. She turned as more of Sansa’s handmaidens entered. Since she had been confined to her chambers, only the serving girl served as company and only stayed long enough to see to her tasks. Aleia came too, occasionally. Neither of them spoke much though. If they were all here and all talking to her, it could only mean one thing.  
“Is my husband well again?” Sansa asked.  
“Yes my lady! He has ordered for there to be a feast tonight to celebrate.” Aleia laughed excitedly. Sansa could not find the words to express how she felt and so just continued to smile. Her husband was well again. That was good, wasn’t it? He could protect her once more.  
_But will he?_  
She allowed the handmaidens to undress her as the tub was being filled. They chattered excitedly about the feast and wondered whether they would get to dance again. Sansa’s mind was far away.  
If Ramsay was well again, he would most certainly return to her bed with the hope of conceiving a son. _That’s if he can even bear to look at me._ Last time she had seen him, he had ordered her away immediately. But if he _did_ want her to conceive, what then? Roose would not let her son live. If she were to become pregnant again, he would certainly see to it that the child died in the womb again. Sansa was not sure she could cope with the loss of a child for the second time. And Ramsay…what would he do if they lost another child? He wanted a son. An heir. If she lost another he would believe she was incapable of giving him one. And then he would seek to get one by other means. Someone else would take her place. Once he had gotten rid of her…  
_He wouldn’t do that.  
_ She would have to see to it that she did not fall pregnant again. It would be better to never have another child than it would be to lose one. Sansa doubted she’d be able to convince Ramsay against sharing her bed, nor did she want to. She still missed his body beside hers. She still missed the feeling of him inside of her. Sansa had tried to simulate the feeling of it at night when she missed him most, but it was not the same.  
No. She couldn’t avoid it, which meant she would have to find another way to rid herself of a child. __  
The tea. Myranda had given her something that stopped Ramsay’s seed from planting itself. Roose had used it to get rid of her son. But Sansa had no idea how to make it.  
“Seven hells!” She cried as a bucket of water was poured over her head and into her eyes.  
“For the gods’ sake child, were you dropped on your head as a babe?” One of the handmaidens cried. Sansa finally managed to wipe away enough of the water to see the serving girl staring sullenly at the floor; clutching the bucket and chewing her lower lip. “Apologise for your behaviour girl, or I’ll see to it you get another beating.” Another of the handmaidens growled. The serving girl looked up at her then and Sansa was once again struck by how familiar she was. Yet still she was unable to place her.  
“Forgive me m’lady. It won’t happen again.” She said sulkily.  
“No, it won’t. Go on now, get!” The handmaiden snapped, waving a cloth at her as though she were a troublesome cat. Had Sansa been less distracted, she would have given the order herself. Instead, she just watched the girl leave in brooding silence.  
“My lady, what dress do you wish to wear for the feast?” Aleia asked as she combed out her hair.  
“The green silk one will do.” She replied, unable to think of any others. Green was a sign of life and new beginnings. Sansa just hoped Ramsay would see it that way.

He was already seated by the time she entered the great hall, though it took her a moment to recognise him. His face. She had almost forgotten. It was not the face she imagined when she lay alone in bed at night. No one could imagine a face as monstrous as that.  
_There’s a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I’ve watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look_.  
The Hound’s voice growled in her ear and she almost turned around; expecting to see his melted face behind her. But he was not.  
_I am not afraid. I am not that girl anymore. The songs were all lies and only monsters are real.  
_ Sansa smiled as though she could never be happier. Forcing herself to look into those searching red eyes, Sansa moved towards him. The crowd parted before her, allowing her and her army of handmaidens through. She continued to smile despite how her cheeks had begun to ache. Occasionally she would glance at the Northern Lords that had gathered to see her. She had not been seen for a long while. No doubt the seeds of suspicion Roose had planted were growing strong by now.  
Her smile widened as the Northern Lords smiled back.  
She would not just tear up the weeds. She would burn them and bathe the earth in salt so that no rumour may grow there again.  
“My husband,” Sansa curtsied low until her hands could brush the floor. With a bright smile, she stood. Ramsay’s face remained unmoving. “It warms my heart to see you safe and well again.” _Well_ was pushing it. Behind the red mess that had branched out across his face, her husband looked pale. She could already see beads of sweat appearing on his forehead.  
“Thank you, my lady.” His voice was not cold, but there was no warmth in it either. His red gaze was conflicted; he was not sure what to think. His mind, once so assured, was bewildered by this feast he had requested…  
Her gaze switched to the man that sat to his left.  
Damon watched her closely, his look speaking a thousand words. He was not pleased to see her, that much was certain. But he’d kept him alive, as Sansa had asked. He’d stayed with him whilst she had been confined to her chambers.  
Ramsay turned away from her; leaving her standing there with no orders. No indication of what to do. He leaned over to mutter something into Damon’s ear. Damon laughed. Ramsay smiled. Sansa’s face darkened in anger. _What lies has he been telling you?_ Whilst she had been with Ramsay, protecting him from his own father, Roose had been spreading lies about her state of mind. Now, while she had helplessly waited for her husband to grow strong again, Damon had been whispering in his ear. He’d done what she’d asked of him, that was true, but he had also made sure he’d benefitted from it.  
Not wishing to stand there any longer, Sansa stepped up onto the dais and took her seat on Ramsay’s right in the vacant chair between him and his father. Sansa did not look at Roose as she sat. She couldn’t bear to see the amusement in his eyes as Ramsay and Damon continued to ignore her presence.  
“Some wine for my good-daughter.” Roose’s voice was quiet, but she immediately heard someone approach her; a cup already in hand.  
“Actually Lord Bolton, I’d rather have some ale. I’ve developed a taste for it during my,” _imprisonment_ “confinement.” It was a lie of course. She had never even tasted ale and had to try her best not to grimace. If Roose noticed, he did not bring any attention to it. Thankfully, he left her to her cup of the brown, foul tasting liquid.  
After a time, Ramsay and Damon finished talking and Sansa took her chance. “I truly am glad that you are feeling better, my lord.” She muttered, not daring to look at him. She could feel his red gaze turn on her but did not feel ready to look up; fearing the hatred she might see in his eyes.  
“As am I.” His tone was almost gentle and it made her look up to meet his gaze. Sansa forced herself to keep her eyes on his.  
“I very much looked forward to seeing you again this evening, wife. You are as beautiful as I remember. If a little thinner.” He took her hand gently in his own. Sansa was confused for a moment. She had not expected this kindness. “Soon enough, the Northern Lord’s will return to their keeps. My father will return to the Dreadfort and it will be just you and I.”  
“And Reek.” Sansa smiled a sideways smile, cocking her head knowingly.  
“Yes,” Ramsay laughed. He brought her hand up to his broken lips and Sansa had to suppress a shudder. “You, me and Reek.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was almost nice, wasn't it? I had planned for this chapter to go differently, but I thought I'd be merciful considering I haven't updated in a while.  
> It was also exactly a year ago today that I started writing fanfiction so yay! I feel all emotional...(I only remembered because it's my birthday too, I share my birthday with Rory McCann and Aiden Gillen, Sansa's fellas XD)


	37. Her Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herr God, Herr Lucifer   
> Beware  
> Beware.
> 
> Out of the ash  
> I rise with my red hair   
> And I eat men like air.

Ramsay’s high spirits remained throughout the feast and got higher with every cup of wine. He jested with Damon, complimented Sansa and even congratulated a number of the Northern Lords for their valour in battle. His hand remained linked through hers throughout the feast.  
After the last course was cleared away, he ordered for there to be dancing. Sansa could not remember the last time she had smiled and laughed so much. It were as though her heart had frozen over and she could feel the ice melting. Even Roose’s cold presence at her side was not enough to freeze the thaw. She watched her handmaidens as each were asked to dance. It was understandable. They were all pretty and there weren’t many girls to go around. Sansa wanted to dance too. Soon enough, she spotted her chance making his way through the crowd. Despite their previous encounter the night her pregnancy was announced, Mychel Redfort smiled at her warmly. “Lord Ramsay, it is so very good to see you well again.” He beamed with a sweeping bow.  
“Thank you, Ser Mychel.” Ramsay smiled back, but there was something unnerving in his tone.  
“Perhaps you may allow me the honour of dancing with your wife? Lady Sansa is a gifted dancer. She is a delight to dance with.” Sansa had the grace to blush at the compliments before turning to await her husband’s permission.  
She locked eyes with a monster.  
His hand tightened around hers, so much so she had to bite her cheek to stop herself from crying out. Quickly blinking away tears, she turned to face Mychel once more. “I’m very sorry Ser, but I wish to spend this evening with my husband. Perhaps you might find some company elsewhere. My handmaidens are all very comely, are they not?” She forced herself to laugh, picked up her cup of wine and took a long drink; still painfully aware of Ramsay’s tight grip.  
“They are indeed.” Ramsay piped up. “I have spent this evening wondering the name of the pretty fair-haired one.” He added, indicating towards Aleia. Sansa’s heart seemed to stop and she turned to look at him; both angered and humiliated by his words. When she turned to show him how deep his words had cut, she found he had no interest. His red gaze was already distracted by Aleia who was dancing amongst a group of young men and women.  
Mychel must have left them at some point but neither of them noticed. After a time, Ramsay reached under the table and placed a hand on her thigh. A part of her wanted to move away; she was still irritated by his behaviour. He leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Time for bed, wife.” He hissed. It should have excited her. She should have felt the familiar warmth at the pit of her stomach, but she was too irked. Yet when he stood, she did too; knowing better than to displease him further.

His grip on her hand did not loosen as they made their way slowly to their chambers. The stairs appeared to be a challenge for him and he grew angrier every time he had to stop and wait for the pain to ease. Sansa was unsure of what to do. Helping him would make him look weak and would serve only to anger him further. Yet she did not want him to injure himself in his rush to get to their chambers. She needed him strong. She needed him to protect her.  
“My lord…are you well?” She ventured. Ramsay was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Sansa held her breath. Slowly, her monster turned to face her. “Yes.” His voice was gentler now and he loosened his grip on her hand. “I am well.” He smiled weakly at her, but in the half light of the corridors it made him look even more grotesque.      
_At least he has calmed._  
“Shall we continue on to our chambers then?” She asked, smiling a sultry smile. As long as she kept him sweet, all would be well.  
_All would be well._  
Ramsay continued on towards their chambers, though Sansa couldn’t help but note his laboured breathing. Eventually they made it and Ramsay staggered through the door, leaving Sansa to close it behind them. The moment she turned around, her monster was there. He pressed his broken lips against her neck first; moaning into her flesh. “You want to fuck me, don’t you Sansa?” He murmured. “You want to fuck me hard.” Sansa frowned as he nipped and sucked at her neck. It was not that he was being rough or that the feeling was unpleasant, it was the question that made it sound as though she had a say. Yet she was the one pressed up against the door.  
“You shouldn’t do this to me you know.” He moaned. Sansa wondered how much he had had to drink. “Do…do wha…” He silenced her in the strangest of ways; placing an entire hand over her face and just keeping it there. It made it hard for her to breath. When he pulled his hand away, he left no time for words as his lips crushed against hers. As their tongues collided, he bit down hard; seizing her tongue with his teeth. Her eyes widened with panic.  
_What is he doing?_  
It wasn’t making sense. Ramsay had always been rough. She’d grown to like it. But this was something different. This made her feel powerless and weak; he said she shouldn’t do this to him. Do what? It made her sound wanton, as though it were her fault.  
Finally freeing her tongue, he fumbled around in search for her hands. She did not stop him from taking them, not even when he placed them over the front of his breeches; signalling for her to undo them. “You shouldn’t do that.” He sighed into her ear, pressing his weight against her. Sansa stopped and he groaned in disappointment. “Ramsay, I…I don’t understand. Do you want me to keep going?”  
The way he thrust his hips forward signalled his affirmative.  
But before she could go any further, she heard the tearing of fabric and was suddenly struck by cold air against her skin. Ramsay pushed her up against the door and began to try and hoist her legs up; gripping onto her thighs so tightly she could feel the flesh beginning to bruise.  
Sudden visions of their wedding night flashed through her mind. The way he’d pinned her against the door; choked her until she blacked out. The splinters that dug into her back as he forced his way inside her.  
“That is enough.” Her voice was firm and strong as she pushed him away. “Are you mad? Have you learnt _nothing_?” She hissed angrily. Ramsay stared at her blankly. Sansa shrugged herself back into her ruined dress and brushed past him on her way to the bed. She took her own time. With her back towards him, she allowed the shredded silk to slide from her body before rolling onto the mattress; stretching out before him enticingly. She would not lose control again.  
Sansa held out her hand.  
Ramsay moved forward, removing his shirt as he came towards her. He took her hand, allowing her to pull him down onto the bed beside her. Sansa made short work of his breeches before she began straddling him in earnest.  
_He got carried away, that was all._  
It soon became clear to her that, despite her efforts, nothing was happening. She stopped moving her hips, just to be certain before reaching down to feel. Ramsay swallowed and glanced down towards where her hand was.  
“Ramsay…” Sansa breathed, confused.  
The way his face contorted with rage made him unrecognisable. Before Sansa could stop him, he reached up and wrapped his hand around her throat; slamming her down onto the mattress before clambering on top of her, thrusting in a desperate bid for something to happen. There was nothing. The feeling of it was so bizarre that Sansa would have laughed were she not so frightened.  
When he struck her across the face, she put her hands up as though to try and push him away. Ramsay, or the monster that had been her husband, growled at the contact.  
Sansa growled back.  
Ramsay bared his teeth ready to sink them into her flesh. Sansa’s hands connected with his shoulders. Beneath her left hand, the skin was rough and hot and she recalled the wound that had required too many stitches to count.  
_Stitches._  
Before Ramsay could bring his head down to bite her, Sansa hooked a fingernail beneath one of the stitches and pulled as hard as she could. Ramsay’s feral snarls turned to howls and he reeled away from her; his shoulder spewing blood.  
Whilst the beast yowled in pain, Sansa grabbed her ruined dress and struggled into it as she made for the door.  
Just outside the door, the serving girl was waiting with a jug of wine.  
“Take that away and go fetch the maester. Tell him my husband will require stitches immediately.” Sansa hissed, not wanting to remind her monster that she was just outside the door.  
“Stitches?” In the dim candlelight, Sansa could have sworn she saw the serving girl smile.  
“Yes. Stitches. Now go!” Sansa urged, daring to raise her voice. Without another word, the serving girl hurried off down the corridor; quiet as a shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's a bit embarrassing for Ramsay isn't it? Don't laugh! XD


	38. Lady Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you can hear me cry  
> See my dreams all die  
> From where you're standing  
> On your own.   
> It's so quiet here  
> And I feel so cold  
> This house no longer  
> Feels like home.

She waited outside whilst the maester dealt with him. It was cold in her wrecked dress, but she did not dare to go back inside. Instead, Sansa paced up and down and wrapped her arms around herself; gritting her teeth against the cold. After only a short time, Damon’s figure appeared, marching down the hallway towards her. He wore only his breeches and had clearly found company somewhere else. If he had not left Ramsay’s side whilst he was recovering, he must have been without it for a long while.   
“What did you do?” He growled at her.  
Sansa turned and struck him across the cheek.  
“You forget yourself. You are Ramsay’s friend, nothing more. How dare you address me like that?” She snapped. They glared at each other for a long while before Damon’s shoulders slumped and he looked away.  
“Forgive me, my lady. What happened?” He asked through clenched teeth.  
“It’s a private matter.” She muttered.  
“I’ve been helping the man piss, shit and walk for weeks. Ramsay and I have no secrets.” Damon grinned his boyish grin.  
“Well now you do.” Sansa did not return his smile and went back to pacing up and down the corridor.  
“Does Reek know he is injured?”  
“Does it look like I’ve been to the kennels?” Sansa snarled, opening her arms to expose her ruined dress. The silk slid from her shoulder exposing her left breast. Damon looked away quickly. “Gods woman.” He muttered, throwing his hands into the air and marching into their chambers; slamming the door behind him.   
Left alone once more, Sansa’s mind turned back to the night’s events. The way Ramsay had treated her…it had been just like before. It had made her feel powerless and weak. She had tried to regain her standing and succeeded, had it not been for his…  
That was the part she didn’t understand. He had been angry about it, that much was clear and he had tried to take it out on her. He had been so kind to her at the feast and then he just switched. But had the change happened in their chambers or during the feast? She recalled the way his hand had tightened around hers enough to make her bite back tears. And then he had observed Aleia; complimenting her on her beauty.  
_What is happening to us?_  
“Lady Stark. Ser Mychel is here, at your request.” Sansa realised her cheeks were wet and hurriedly wiped the tears away before turning to face him.  
“Ser Mychel.” She smiled, waving the serving girl away.  
“Lady Sansa.” Mychel bowed and stepped forwards. “You wanted to see me?”  
“Yes, I’m sorry it is so late, but I…” From inside the room, Ramsay late out a muffled yelp.  
“Is there something wrong?” Mychel frowned.   
Sansa wanted to explain everything but she could not form the words. Would he think her petty? Stupid? All Ramsay did was pull her hair a little and get carried away with it.  
_But he didn’t get carried away, and he acted as though it was my fault. He blames me._  
Sansa turned away from Mychel before he could see her tears. “My lady, what is it?” Mychel asked; placing a hand on his shoulder.  
“I…I don’t understand. None of it made any sense!” She whispered, turning around. Mychel glanced down and glimpsed her torn dress. He said nothing. “He didn’t…we didn’t…it was just the way he treated me.” She didn’t dare to raise her voice higher than a whisper. “He was unkind and made me feel powerless…”  
“Sansa, stop it.” Mychel hissed, gripping her wrist and holding it tightly. “I warned you and you assured me you knew what you were doing. You should have heeded Petyr’s warning and stuck to his plan. Yet you had the whore killed and decided to carry the bastard’s child.”  
“I had to. I needed him…”  
“Listen to me. You are the Lady of Winterfell. For the love of the Gods _act_ like it. You are not a child anymore. Do not call me here ever again. Did you not notice how Ramsay had you refuse me at dinner? Are you out of your mind?”  
“It is not _I_ who is out of their mind, it is him. I…I couldn’t arouse him and he snapped. I need your help, Mychel. You’re the only person I know that can help. If I can’t please him, it will go back to how it was. I can’t let that happen again. I will not be his pet again!” She could not stop herself from raising her voice. The door to her chambers opened and Damon stepped out just as Mychel released her hand and took a step back.  
“Ser Mychel.” Damon raised an eyebrow.  
“Damon.” Mychel acknowledged him with a nod.  
“I had not expected to find you out here.” Sansa shivered as his gaze turned to her.  
“Lady Sansa was distressed. I was just leaving. Good night, my lady.” He did not meet her gaze again. Sansa’s heart sank. He was her last link to Petyr yet he was unwilling to help. All she needed was an ally. Someone to confide in.  
“He’s sleeping now.” Damon cut through her thoughts and she looked away from Mychel’s retreating figure. Damon’s gaze was cold and calculating. She knew what he was thinking but feared that pleading her innocence would only stir his suspicions. “I just thought you’d want to know.” It was more of a growl this time.  
“Thank…” He turned and walked away before she could finish. With a sigh of frustration, Sansa wrapped her arms around herself once more and headed back into her chambers to try and get some rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a short chapter I'm afraid, but following last nights episode, I feel inspired and can't wait for what's to come in this story!  
> Fasten your seat belts readers...


	39. Pets Should Never Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But don't you come here and say I didn't warn you  
> About the way your world can alter  
> And oh how you try to command it all still  
> Every single time it all shifts one way or the other

The sun fought its way through the clouds; illuminating the courtyard in a long-lost warm glow. The men that prepared themselves for the journey ahead looked up with hope and relief in their eyes. They would not be slowed by heavy snows today.  
Ramsay damned the lot of them for looking so fucking happy. Turning away from the window, he shut his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead in a feeble attempt to ease the headache that was brewing. His eyelids twitched with fatigue.  
Somewhere not far off, the wolves began to howl again.  
“Argh, just fuck off!” Ramsay growled, stumbling away from the window and back to the bed; rolling his shoulder as he had come to do so often. The maester warned him it may lead to stiffness in his arm if he did not stop but it had become a habit, and habits were hard to break. He raised his left hand and clasped his shoulder; feeling the muscles relax and stiffen as it rotated. Beneath his fingertips, the scar stuck out above the flesh; ugly and grey. One of the many things that was ugly about him now.  
Sansa’s shoulders rose and fell as she breathed; still deep in sleep. Her red hair was a stark contrast to the white linen and her naked back. Ramsay swallowed and continued to stare. It _should_ be arousing. There was always something about a woman’s naked back. It was what he saw when they were running away from him on a hunt. It was what he saw when they were off their guard and unaware of his presence. Yet staring at Sansa now, he felt nothing.  
It wasn’t as if he couldn’t. He’d taken Reek multiple times in the past two weeks and had even hunted a couple of serving wenches. That had always managed to get his blood running south. Sometimes, in the morning he would wake up and the sheets would be wet too.  
It wasn’t as if they hadn’t tried either. Once he’d been feeling better, he’d tried again and Sansa had spread her legs willingly. Other times, she had been the one to climb on top of him; even attempting a few tricks she’d most likely seen Myranda do.  
Yet none of it worked.  
As soon as he felt his blood begin to stir, the dream would return to him. The way she’d laughed at him as their son thrashed and fought.  
_He’s a bastard you know. A bastard just like you._  
Ramsay shook his head to try and get the voice out of it. Her words mingled with the howling of wolves.  
It had just been a dream. A foolish, childish dream. He needed to forget about it. He needed things to be how they were. Too much had changed. Even he had changed; despite weeks of healing, his face had remained as monstrous as before and the redness of his eyes had not dulled. Sansa did her best to look him in the eye, but sometimes he would see her struggling with it. Reek was worse. No matter how much he threatened his pet, he would always beg to close his eyes or turn away. Ramsay felt it was more of a reflex than a choice. He had to grab Reek’s face and force him to look at him if he wanted to come to that terrified gaze.  
_I have been away for far too long._  
Sansa rolled over and muttered something softly. Her face was peaceful and solemn. She would always be beautiful, but it was not her beauty that he lusted for. It was the way she had looked at him and saw her protector, her shield, her husband. The adoration in her eyes that she never realised she had. And when she was jealous…Myranda, Reek, even Damon, she’d never looked better. He wanted that back again. She always thought she had influence and in some ways she had. But he knew how to manipulate her too. He could tell she was keeping secrets. Her and Reek. He could tell.  
Ramsay wanted his pet back. Ramsay wanted his wife back. His adoring, jealous, fiery…  
“Forgive me my lord, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”  
She had slipped in unnoticed by Ramsay and it unnerved him a bit. That soon became frustration. But the moment he saw her sweet face and fair hair, he forced his face to soften into a grin. The handmaiden glanced up and caught his smile. She blushed and dipped her head again. Ramsay was very much aware he wore only his breeches. His face might be fucked, but he still had a well-toned form and fine words.  
“I…I’ll come back later…” She stammered as he moved towards her. “Sh…shall I, my lord. Lady S…Sansa isn’t awake yet.” She quickly turned away before he reached her, but his voice was not one to be ignored lightly.  
“What is your name?” He asked softly, his grin widening.  
“Aleia, my lord.” He couldn’t tell from beneath the curtain of hair whether she was crying or blushing. It didn’t matter really.  
“Well, Aleia. Go and fetch my Reek for me. He’ll be grateful I’ve sent such a pretty face to wake him.” Ramsay had moved close enough to smell her. She had a sweet scent. Sweet as spring.  
“Yes my lord.” Aleia bobbed a curtsy, then hurried from the room.  
Ramsay turned and caught the dark gaze from amongst the sheet.  
_Found you._

The outside world had grown colder still. Reek had scarcely noticed how cold it was these past few weeks. His only focus had been his master who had grown so frightful yet so hard to please. He lived in fear of another finger being taken. Or a toe. Or both. Again.  
When he had first been summoned to his masters chambers by the pretty handmaiden, he had been near to soiling himself. Fortunately, when he’d entered the room, he could sense the tension there was not aimed towards him. He had not been summoned to lose a body part, nor entertain his master and master’s lady wife. “Come Reek, let’s go!” Ramsay had said cheerfully almost the moment Reek had crawled into the room. Lady Sansa had been getting out of bed; a familiar expression on her face. Reek had grown to fear it, though he had not seen it for some time.  
“Thank you for bringing my pet to me Aleia. Pet, say thank you.” Reek glanced up at his master; checking as quickly as he could for signs of a game. Ramsay rarely let him speak to anyone. But there was no malice or promised pain in his master’s reddened gaze, only amusement. “Th…thank you…Al…Aleia.” Reek stammered, dipping his head and not looking at her. He didn’t like handmaidens looking at him. Not after the last one.  
“Come Reek.” Master ordered. Reek turned and scurried after him, eager to be out of the room where anger was building so strongly.  
He had not expected his master to take him outside though. Perhaps they had been going to find his boys or Lord Bolton. Master allowed him to stand up so he wouldn’t have to crawl through the snow and Reek thanked him repeatedly for his mercy. “Did you see my wife’s face this morning Reek? Thunderous wasn’t she! It’s just so easy to make her jealous.” His master laughed, slinging a heavy arm around Reek’s frail shoulders.  
“Jealous…master?”  
“Yes, Reek. I want my wife back.” Was all his master replied with. As he was pushed along, Reek suddenly realised where they were headed. “Um…master, why are we going to the Godswood?” Reek asked; wringing his hands together nervously. The last time they had been to the Godswood…Reek shuddered as he recalled the faint voice that had whispered Sansa’s name.  
_It had been Bran’s voice_.  
It all seemed so long ago now. It had been before Sansa had even married Ramsay.  
_I should have saved her then. Now it is too late._  
_No!_  
Reek whimpered in an attempt to smother the voices. Ramsay looked at him quizzically but said nothing. Reek squeaked again as Ramsay’s hand tightened around his arm.  
It was warmer in the Godswood, as it always was. And quiet too. Many of the Northern Lords had left Winterfell to return to their castles before the snows got too heavy. Reek was somewhat relieved. He just wanted it to be him and master. So many of the Northern Lords had known who he once was. The spitting and the insults had not hurt. The name they had called him had; as though he could imagine the kiss of Ramsay’s flaying knife each time it was said.  
“You have been a very loyal pet, haven’t you Reek?” Ramsay asked once they were deep into the Godswood.  
“Yes m’lord. Good Reek. Loyal Reek.” He chanted dutifully.  
“And you would never hide secrets from me, would you?” They were nearing the Weirwood now; he could see the tree at the end of the path. Reek began to tremble. “N…no master.” He couldn’t bear to look at him. He knew. He always knew.  
Reek looked around, desperate to see anything but his red gaze. For once, Reek got his wish.  
She was standing before the Weirwood tree. Her small figure did not cower from the cold. Standing as tall as she could, gazing deep into the eyes of the Weirwood. Reek did not know who she was.  
But, for a moment, Theon did.  
_Arya._  
The whisper wound through the trees and made the hairs on his body stand on end. Reek shuddered as the girl before the tree span around; seeking the source of the voice. He didn’t recognise her face. Neither did Theon. When she saw Reek looking at her, she fled. Somewhere from beyond the castle walls, a wolf began to howl.  
_Arya._  
Master must have heard it too. Ramsay turned away from him; casting an eye about the place. Reek shook even harder when his master swallowed nervously. _He is afraid._  
“Master…” He squeaked.  
When Ramsay turned, his rage was as red as his eyes.  
“What was that?” He growled. Reek looked about frantically. Anywhere, anywhere but the eyes. “WHAT WAS THAT?” His master roared, making Reek whine and shake so hard he thought he’d collapse.  
“M…master…I don’t know…” He whimpered. Ramsay’s arm whipped out and Reek’s eyes bulged as his hand wrapped around his thin neck. There was nowhere else to look now. He remembered that angry stare from when master had been recovering; how uncontrollable it was. If it hadn’t been for Damon, Ramsay would have forgotten himself. And Damon wasn’t here to save Reek now.  
“Don’t lie to me Reek. Tell me what you’ve been hiding. TELL ME!” The master demanded. The pet’s eyes widened further. He couldn’t…he shouldn’t…  
“Tell me, or I swear to all the Gods I’ll flay every inch of your worthless little body.” Ramsay snarled.  
Reek felt salty tears burn his cheeks. _Worthless._ That was what master had called him. _If I am worthless to master, I am worth nothing._ Reek choked out a sob despite the hands wrapped about his throat.  
“Reek, I have been merciful so far. But this is your final warning. Tell. Me.” Ramsay shook him roughly to ward off the darkness that was threatening to consume Reek. “What are you and my wife hiding?”  
Suddenly he could breathe again. The sweat relief of air filling his lungs dulled the pain of being thrown to the ground, for now at least. He was blinded by black and white spots that swam through his vision. He never even saw master pick up the stick. Reek yowled in pain as it bit through his thighs.  
“Who am I?” Ramsay asked. Reek wasn’t even given time to respond before the stick thwacked against his frail ribs. “Master!” Reek screamed.  
“And who are you?” Again, the stick came down hard onto his torso. “WHO ARE YOU REALLY?”  
“LOYAL REEK! GOOD REEK! I’VE ALWAYS BEEN REEK MASTER. ALWAYS. FOREVER. REEK, REEK…IT RHYMES WITH WEAK, MEEK AND SQUEAK!” He screamed, longing for the pain to stop. “Please, mercy master! Please! I’ll do anything…anything…” He sobbed. His vision had cleared now and he could see the monster that towered over him.  
“Tell me what you and Sansa are hiding.” Reek dared not to look away from that red gaze. At first the words came out as a choked sob. The sight of Ramsay raising his stick again startled the words out of him like game from a bush. “Your father…Lord Roose…he…he visited her while you were away, the…the night before she lost…lost the baby. He visited her again when you were ill master! He told her never to tell anyone what happened that night...” Reek paused momentarily, not wishing to say what came next. _If I tell him, he’ll die. Roose will kill him._  
Let him Theon muttered. _Let him die._  
Ramsay raised the stick again.  
“He said he’d have you killed!” Reek and Theon fought over control of the voice so that it came out as a strangled cry. Neither was truly sure who had said the words.  
Ramsay lowered the stick.  
His face was unreadable. Reek continued to whimper on the ground. When Ramsay threw the stick aside, he yelped again, but Ramsay did not hear him.  
“Master?” Reek squeaked as he watched his master’s figure retreating from the Godswood.


	40. Cutting the Puppet's Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sweetheart, what have you done to us?  
> I turned my back and you turned to dust  
> What have you done?  
> And oh please, just come here, don't fight with me  
> And I admit, think you may have broken it.

Sansa watched her closely as she helped her dress. Aleia kept her eyes averted. Her face was pale and taut with anxiety. Her hands trembled. After a while, Sansa took them in her own. “Aleia, look at me.” She commanded. The girl whimpered but obeyed. Sansa was sure she was verging on tears. “I saw what happened this morning.” Sansa admitted, unable to keep the coldness from her voice.  
“My lady…I’m so sorry…he just…”  
“Hush now. I know. I know.” Sansa’s face softened.  
“They say…they say he hunts women. Will he hunt me?” Aleia bit down on her lip to stop herself from sobbing. Sansa stared at her, almost in shock. Aleia was trying so hard to bite back tears.  
_She’s just a little girl. A pretty little fool. How did she end up here?_  
Sansa had been a little girl too once. She had loved King Joffrey and played her part willingly, at the amusement of the Queen. A pretty little fool. She had ended up in the capital; an infested pit of vipers and rats.  
“He will not hurt you, I swear it.” Sansa promised, wiping away a tear and cupping Aleia’s cheek. The door opened and closed but Sansa ignored it. “No harm shall come to you, I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.” She smiled warmly.  
“My Lady, Lord Bolton is without.” The serving girl informed with her customary sullen tone. Sansa looked up, suddenly fearful herself. What did he want from her now?  
“Let him in.” She said; her voice trembled. Aleia moved away from her and began to tidy the room. When Roose Bolton entered, Sansa felt that familiar chill fill the room and it made her shiver. “Lady Sansa.” He said, smiling that cold smile. She had managed to avoid him the past two weeks. She had obeyed his commands so what did he _want_?  
“Can I help you with something Lord Bolton?” Her voice was cool and indifferent. Sansa recalled that the last time they had spoken together she had attempted to stab him. Unfortunately, Ramsay’s knife was beneath the bed and too far from her reach for her to make another attempt. _  
Give him a message from me_ Her brother’s words echoed through her head.   
“Leave us.” He ordered, watching Aleia warily. Aleia had not the courage to even look at him before she fled the room. “I don’t trust handmaidens.” Roose gave a small, knowing smile.  
“What about _her_?” Sansa looked meaningfully at the serving girl.  
“Nan, what will I do to you if you disobey me?”  
“Flay me living m’lord.” The girl replied without missing a beat. Sansa watched her for a moment. The girl continued to stare murderously at Lord Bolton’s back. Sansa wondered how Roose could not feel it burning through his flesh. She couldn’t help but admire the little girl for her bravery. The bravery seemed to embolden her. “She’s a little young for you isn’t she Lord Bolton? I thought it was only a wolf you craved now?”  
“I came here to remind you of our deal. I am to leave today, but do not think I have not left eyes behind. You will tell your husband nothing of what occurred the night before you lost your child. If you do, he will die and you will be taken to the Dreadfort…”  
“To be wedded and bedded by you. I had not forgotten.” Sansa said stonily. Roose just smiled smugly.  
“Very good, Lady Sansa. You play your part so well. You always do.” His amusement was sharper and more painful than a dagger in her side. He thought of her as a piece. He turned away from her and made to leave, only to be stopped by the thunder of footsteps coming down the corridor. Moments later, the door crashed open to reveal an enraged Ramsay. Sansa could feel the blood drain from her face.  
“Ramsay?” Roose inquired quietly.  
“Well isn’t this unusual? Finding you two together. What are you doing wife? Making more deals behind my back?” His red gaze flicked from her to his father.  
“What are you talking about Ramsay?” Roose asked quietly.  
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? Did you really think Reek wouldn’t tell me?”  
“Ramsay…don’t…” Sansa warned.  
“Don’t try to warn me wife! What did you do the night before my son died? Tell me why you’d promised her you’d have me killed if I found out.” Ramsay stormed towards his father and Sansa thought for half a heartbeat he’d dare to strike him. She willed for it to happen. _What is weaker than a family that chases its own tail?_  
“Do not presume to threaten me bastard. Everything you have I gave you, you would do well to remember that. Now step aside before you make me rue the day I raped your mother.” Sansa’s eyes widened, she could feel the tension’s current sweeping past her; trying to force her with it. It made her legs weak and she managed to stumble to a chair before she collapsed. Ramsay’s trembling was visible even from where she was sitting.  
Ramsay’s whole face twitched; the patchwork flesh flinching grotesquely, no part moving in coordination with another.  
Roose’s face remained a frozen mask.  
Her monster stepped aside.  
“I trust you shall both have a pleasant winter.” Roose said over his shoulders before sweeping from the room, leaving the cold and the serving girl behind. Ramsay stood still; staring at the spot his father had stood just moments before. Sansa rested her elbow onto the arm of the chair and placed her forehead into her hand. Her head had begun to ache with the conflicting voices. She stared into the hearth; willing for time to reverse.  
“What did he do?” Ramsay’s voice was deadly soft. Sansa sighed and slumped back in the chair; closing her eyes wearily. “Did you think I was the only one who knew how to rid a woman of her child?” She muttered. Ramsay was silent for a moment. A long moment. So long, in fact, Sansa opened her eyes and half expected him to have disappeared. Unfortunately, he had not.   
“He forced you to drink it?” He asked, his voice a low growl that sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.  
“Not exactly.” Ramsay’s head snapped up and his red eyes focused on her; narrowing in suspicion. “Then what exactly _did_ he do? Do you mean to tell me you drank it willingly?”  
“You have no one to blame but yourself for this.” She hissed.  
“I told you to protect him.”  
“And you swore to protect _me_. Don’t you remember? You swore to protect me and in exchange I would see to it that you got the North. It is _your_ fault.” Sansa did not mean to sound so accusatory. Ramsay charged towards her, stopping himself only once he was looming over her. Sansa did not cower from him. She met his glare with her own.  
“ _My_ fault? Do you know what I could do to you? Do you want to be my little bitch again, is that it? Then I’d give you all the protection you need. You can stay locked in this room for me to fuck as I please. You remember what that was like don’t you? I still have the wolf pelt you know. Would you like a reminder?”  
“It would be rather hard for you to fuck me as you please if you can’t even get it up.” A sharp intake of breath was all she made when the back of his hand struck her cheek. “For the Gods’ sake, why must you behave like such a child? Was I forced into wedlock with a dullard?”  
“You are pushing me too far wife. Keeping going and you’ll lose a finger for it.”  
“If you do not start behaving the Lord and using your head, your father will kill you before you even know it.” Sansa gripped his arm tightly. “No matter what happens, what _has_ happened, we cannot let it come between us. Damage must be controlled and manipulated for our benefit, Ramsay.”  
He tore his hand out of her grasp.  
“Ramsay?” Sansa stood up as he began to walk away. Ramsay turned and gave her a look she had seen only when he’d learnt of Myranda’s betrayal. “Be grateful you have made your bed already madam. Given a second chance I would not give it to you again!” He snarled. Sansa stared at him, stunned into silence. He stormed from the room without another word.  
“Ramsay?” She called. “Ramsay!”  
He didn’t come back.


	41. Stone Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what I'm in love for, I know  
> But I don't know if you could help it  
> Baby I'm just being selfish  
> Loving you is a bloodsport.

The amount of diners had dropped drastically, but the mood was merrier than Sansa could ever remember it being. There was dancing the entire night and now the men no longer had to fight for a partner. Only a small number of minor lords remained; hoping for any scraps of favour left on Ramsay’s plate. The knights from the Vale had remained too and a garrison had been set in place to fill Winterfell’s walls. Ramsay’s boys had remained too of course, as well as Sansa’s handmaidens. There would be very little for them at The Dreadfort.  
Sansa, however, could not find the heart to join in the merriment.  
Ramsay sat beside her, finally in the Lord’s chair which his father had taken for too long. To his left sat Damon and his other men. Sansa sat to his right; the spaces next to her all empty. She could feel Reek shuffling around her feet anxiously. He also seemed to sense Ramsay’s growing discontent. Ramsay himself sat with an elbow on the arm of his chair, stroking his jaw thoughtfully whilst playing with the knife in his other hand. He almost looked the Lord there; looking out over the Great Hall, his mind far away. He looked as though he were plotting and for a second an image of Littlefinger came to mind. Sansa couldn’t help but snort into her goblet.  
“Something funny, wife?” Ramsay inquired with a dull tone. The lie came to her lips easily as she spotted Damon milling through the crowd with the look of a hunter on his face. “Why husband, it looks as though your loyal dog has found a new bone to chew besides yours.” Sansa forced herself to laugh again as she watched The young serving girl, Nan, quickly move out of Damon’s path and melt into the crowd again. Damon looked around angrily, annoyed that his prey had alluded him. Clearly, he liked a younger girl.  
“Damon!” Ramsay barked. Damon’s head snapped up immediately and Sansa had to cover her mouth to regain her composure as the loyal pet was called to heal.  
“You called for me, my lord?” Damon grinned, bowing. Ramsay dealt her a sideways glance before looking up at his friend. “A Lord I am, and a Lord has a household but needs a man to keep it. I would name you my steward. The steward of Winterfell.”  
Sansa coughed and spluttered as her wine went down the wrong way.  
“Ramsay…my lord, you honour me.” Damon bowed again deeply, his grin almost splitting his face in half.  
“My love, the role of the steward should go to a trusted man of _noble_ birth.” Sansa interrupted, finally regaining her composure. She recalled Vayon Poole, who had been her father’s steward and her best friend Jeyne’s father. He had not been the most well-bred of men, but he had had a noble heart. Something she was sure Damon did not possess.  
Ramsay looked at her with the same cool gaze he had dealt her all night.  
“No. I trust Damon. And what is to say he will not become a nobleman? He fought bravely in battle. Why not a knighthood?” Ramsay grinned back at his friend knowingly.  
_He is no true knight_ Sansa thought. But she had learnt her lesson about knight’s long ago.  
Damon bowed and thanked Ramsay again before taking leave to resume his hunt. The moment he had gone, Ramsay turned on Sansa and gripped her hand so tightly she thought the bones would break. “That was unnecessary.” He growled in her ear.  
Sansa turned away from him and swallowed her anger.  
Ramsay’s fingers pinched her chin and forced her head back around to face him. “I am the Lord of Winterfell now. Do I need to give you a reminder?” Sansa kept her gaze cold and indifferent. Ramsay seemed to read it otherwise. He seemed to think she was daring him to continue. “Ser Mychel!” He called. Mychel Redfort looked up from his place on the benches, frowning. A sinister smirk spread across Ramsay’s face and he slumped back in his chair, waiting for Mychel as he made his way through the crowd.  
“Lord Ramsay.” Mychel bowed.  
“Ser Mychel. I don’t believe I have thanked you for all you have done. You escorted my wife to me when she was just a bride-to-be and I heard you fought well in battle.” Ramsay smiled charmingly. Sansa frowned in confusion.  
“There is no need to thank me my lord.”  
“Of course! You deserve a reward.” Ramsay’s smile widened. The hall seemed to grow quieter; the people fearing what this reward might be.  
“Go home.” Ramsay ordered.  
“My Lord?”  
“You and your flock should fly back South for the winter. Birds struggle to fly through snow, even falcons. You and your men are sworn to House Arryn. I’m sure my wife agrees that you ought to return to your little lord, to protect him from the perils of winter.” Ramsay turned to face her, still smiling. “Don’t you wife?”  
Sansa tried to freeze her red hot anger. She stared back of him. Her eyes saying it all but her mouth saying nothing.  
“I bid you safe passage, Ser Mychel.” Ramsay turned back to him, smiling madly. Ser Mychel did not dare to glare at him, but if swords were allowed in the Great Hall, Sansa was sure he’d be gripping the hilt of his extremely tightly. In fact, his right hand was balled at his hip, as though he were thinking just that. He glanced at Sansa for any hint of what should be done. Sansa just stared back.  
Mychel was her last link to Petyr. If he were to leave, would Petyr have any eyes left in Winterfell at all? Or was she left alone with Ramsay? There was a time when she would not have seen that as a problem, but now…Ramsay had become even more unpredictable and Sansa could feel her grip on him loosening. If she could not control him, and there was nothing Petyr could do, what would become of her? She would not be a pet again. Never again.  
Sensing they were out of options, Mychel gave a shallow bow. “My lord.” He muttered through gritted teeth. Ramsay grinned as the man retreated back to his table.  
“Will you pardon me, my lord?” Sansa asked flatly. Ramsay waved a hand at her but did not so much as glance her way. Sansa lingered for a moment before standing; a small part of her still craving his attention.  
_What happened to us?  
_  She had reached the bottom of the dais when Ramsay called down to her. “You can take Reek with you as well. I’ll have another form of entertainment by the time this night is done.” Sansa turned to see him raise a goblet at her before his gaze moved onto something past her shoulder. Sansa turned to see Aleia, still dancing and laughing with a young squire from the Vale. Ramsay’s men guffawed drunkenly.  
“Come Reek!” Sansa snapped. She swept from the room; the crowd parting for her and looking on pitifully. Sansa’s face was carved of stone.   
_Let my heart turn to stone and my tears to ice. I will not weep for him._


	42. Many Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby you're cruel to me  
> but you see I love it when you make me plead  
> I want a scar that looks just like you  
> 'till then I gotta learn to be a wiser fool  
> Baby you need to leave  
> and I know you know  
> that's why you keep ignoring me

Reek struggled to keep up with her as she stormed down the hallways. His legs ached and he could feel cramp starting to seize his maimed feet. She had ordered him to walk. Usually it was only master’s commands he obeyed, but at that moment Sansa had looked and sounded very much the same.  
When he finally reached their chambers, Sansa was sat by the fire and pouring herself another cup of wine. She held it to her lips but did not drink; staring at the flames with eyes unseeing. Reek waited in silence for a fear filled moment, waiting for her to either explode into a fit of rage, or break down into tears. By the look on her face, it could have gone either way.  
But it didn’t.  
“M…m’lady?” He couldn’t bear the silence any more.  
Sansa’s haunted gaze slowly focused on him. She looked for a moment as though she were not sure who he was. Reek wrung his hands together nervously; certain that her anger would resurface in an instant.  
“Reek. I had forgotten you were here.” Her voice was empty and distant. She looked away from him and back to the flames; drinking deeply.  
Outside the castle walls, a wolf began to howl. Reek whimpered fearfully and cowered against the wall. He had always hated their cries, even before…  
“Come here, pet. You may crawl to me.” Her voice was soft, each word said slowly and clearly and the command had been gentle. She wasn’t even looking at him; just stared at the fire, mesmerized by the flames. After a moment’s hesitation, he obeyed. When he reached her, a second wolf joined the first.  
“Nymeria and Ghost. Ghost was always so silent until Jon died, that’s why Jon named him that. And Nymeria…Arya set her free in the Riverlands. She must have found her way home, somehow. Lady is here already.”  
_Lady died, and you were left alone.  
_ Reek whined to try and drown out the dreaded voice. He cried out and tried to cower away as Sansa’s hand reached out…  
And gently ran a hand through his matted curls.  
“I dream about them every night. All of them. My mother and father, Robb, Jon. Lady. I always feel braver with Lady. But I do not see Bran or Rickon, or Arya. What does that mean? Are they still alive?” Again, every word was said slowly and distantly, but Reek could tell she did not require an answer. She just wanted someone to talk to. He keened into her touch as she continued, trying to focus on the gentleness of her hand instead of the words she should not say.  
“Ramsay told me…he told me they were dead. And my mother and father, Robb and Jon…they tell me things. I wake up whispering ‘ _I promise’_. ‘ _Promise me’_ they all beg.” Reek whined again. He did well to block his own dreams out. If Sansa let them in, it was because she wanted to. And that was bad. If Ramsay knew…if master found out…  
“So he’s sent you away too?” Her voice retained its emptiness but her gaze met his and she almost smiled, though it was a sad smile. Reek found he didn’t want her to be sad. He moved his head so it rested on her lap; that always pleased master up whenever he was upset. “It was just for the evening. Master wouldn’t abandon me.”  
“But he would me.” Her eyes fell away from his and she stared down at her cup; her lips pinched together and holding back tears.  
“No m’lady!” Reek had not meant to displease her.  
“He would. He has tired of me.” She muttered. Again, she lifted the cup and rested it against her lips without taking a sip. Her eyes returned to the fire and the lids drooped as though she were tired. “He’s gone for _hours_ sometimes. I think he must have women elsewhere. For all I know he has a room full of whores that he fucks and hunts. I thought I’d accept it once the time came. I told him he could do so. But…you, _you_ I have come to accept. But other women…do you know? You are the only one he trusts completely. Are there others or is it just Aleia?”  
His agonized whine vibrated through his throat. He did not know.  
“Do you think he is lying to us both?”  
“No! He’s not! He wouldn’t do that to me! I am _his_ Reek. His good Reek. His loyal Reek!” He wailed, lifting his head from her lap.  
“But how do you _know_ pet?” Her hand remained on his head, petting gently. It did nothing to calm him down. “Because he told me! He told me he only does it because he wants to make you jealous!” He cried, twisting away from her hand.  
“Hush, Reek. Hush.” She cooed with a voice of ice. Her face was carved of stone; unreadable. “And why did you tell him of Roose’s plan, Reek? Did he hurt you? Or was there someone just _dying_ to have his say?” Reek’s eyes widened with fear and he began to tremble.  
_She knows. Oh gods, she knows. What if she tells master?_  
“I will not tell him.” Sansa’s stone mask slid away and she turned back to gaze into the fire. “With Mychel gone, you’re all I have left.”  
Reek was about to thank her and rest his head back on her lap when a third wolf began to howl. It was not mournful like the other two; it was angry. Vengeful. Reek could see the hairs on Sansa’s arms stand on end, but her face remained still. Whatever mask she was wearing now, it was firmly in place.

Her feet ached and her head span but she refused to stop dancing. Aleia loved to dance and sing and here in this hall she felt alive; almost everyone was watching her. And why wouldn’t they?  
“You are the most beautiful woman in the room tonight.” Her knight had whispered. And she could very well believe it.   
The music began to slow as the song reached its end and she curtsied deeply, giggling and blushing when he took her hand and kissed it. “Shall we go and get a drink, Aleia.” She giggled again when he said her name. The way he dragged his tongue over the ‘l’ always made her laugh. Allowing him to lead her from the dancers, she drank deeply from her goblet. The dancing had made her thirsty, so much so that she hardly even noticed when he settled a hand on her waist. “Shall we go somewhere more private, _Aleia_.” He purred, grinning. She giggled again.  
“Pardon for my interruption.” An ugly man stepped up beside Aleia, making her jump. “We’ve got to go.” The man announced.  
“What, why?”   
“Because Ser Mychel orders it, that is why.”  
“But I don’t want to go.” The ugly man grabbed her knight by the ear and began to drag him away.   
“Wait, where are you going?” Aleia called after him. He gave no reply. All the energy seemed to drain out of her and she slumped her shoulders, pouting. She resolved to find another partner before the night was through and turned, only to bump into another man. He was tall with fair hair and a charming face. Lady Sansa despised him, she recalled. “May I help you Ser?” Aleia asked, smiling sweetly. She was not sure if he was a Ser, in truth, but she did not want to insult him.  
“Lord Ramsay has asked to see you.” He grinned a charming boyish grin.  
“Lord Ramsay?” Her heart began to thud against her rib cage.  
“Yes.” He continued to smile and offered her his arm. She knew better than to refuse. Everyone stopped dancing to watch as she was led from the room. “What does he want with me?” She asked the man as soon as they were out of earshot.  
“What do you think?” He replied incredulously, still grinning that boyish grin. Aleia’s stomach fluttered nervously.  
All too soon they were out of the hall and he was leading her down a narrow corridor. She had never been down here before but she had seen Lord Bolton go there numerous times and so had figured the room it led to must be important. Even the door looked important when they reached it. The fair-headed man knocked twice and Lord Ramsay’s voice replied almost immediately, but before the door opened, the man turned to her. “For gods’ sake, pretend to enjoy whatever it is that he does. And try to please him.”  
“What _will_ he do?” She whispered, suddenly fearful. He didn’t reply. Just opened the door and shoved her inside.  
He sat beside the hearth, but turned when he heard her enter. The fire cast shadows across his patchwork face and made the grin more sinister than charming. “Hello there _Aleia_.” The way he said her name sent shivers through her but she forced herself to smile and courtesy. Despite her fears, she always remembered her courtesies.  
“Please. Sit.” It was more of an order than an invitation. Aleia obeyed and sat on the edge of the chair opposite him. He regarded her with that curious, red stare and she felt the hairs on her body stand to attention. Aleia fiddled with her hands nervously as the silence dragged on.  
“You are a good dancer.” Lord Ramsay clasped his hands together and continued watching her.  
“Yes. I learnt when I was a girl.”  
“You are good with the men too.” She could hear the mocking in his voice but still looked up in surprise. “Are you a virgin?” Aleia couldn’t help but giggle at the question. She bit down on her lip and grinned. Lord Ramsay smiled back and lifted a hand to his face; rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. Aleia watched his every move as he slid his hand into his pocket. She half expected him to pull out a knife. Instead, he revealed a necklace; a silver chain with a heavy red stone. Ramsay raised an eyebrow as she stared at it, mesmerized by how the flames danced on the stone.   
“Do you like it?” He asked.  
“It is very handsome, my lord.” Aleia replied, still mesmerized. Ramsay swung it so the reflections made it look like the stone was on fire. “May I kiss it?” She asked, smiling sweetly. Ramsay stopped swinging the necklace. Aleia held her breath, fearing she had done something wrong.  
He held it out to her.  
_Try to please him._  
Aleia pressed the stone to her lips, then lifted her leg and rested a foot on Lord Ramsay’s chair. He grinned and watched the stone. Aleia lifted her skirts, smiling wantonly now, and began to slide the stone up her leg. Her eyes never left his face. Ramsay licked his lips hungrily as the stone trailed over her knee. She did not raise her skirts any further, but slid her arm beneath the fabric, gasping when she felt the cold stone kiss her lips. Tilting her head back, she smiled and waited until she heard Ramsay begin to breathe heavily. When he did, she pulled the stone out from between her thighs and fastened the necklace around her neck. Aleia slumped back in her chair, tilting her chin up haughtily.  
“I’m the queen in the North!” She announced. Ramsay laughed and the amusement reached his red gaze. Aleia stood up and moved towards him. “A queen needs a king!” She giggled and settled herself on Ramsay’s lap; straddling him as she might a horse.  
“You’re not as innocent as my wife thinks you are, are you, my sweet little fool?” He grinned.  
“I’m not a fool! I’m a queen! And must we mention your wife now?” Aleia smiled. Ramsay grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked it sharply.   
“I may say what I like.” He growled. Aleia took a deep breath to steady her nerves. “Of course you may, you are a king.” She forced herself to laugh. Fortunately, that seemed to amuse him. He sat up to kiss her neck. “Do you consent?” He muttered.  
“I think you would prefer it if I did not.” Aleia replied, smiling but fearing what her words might entail. Ramsay pulled back to flash an approving smirk before leaning in again. This time, however, it was not his lips she felt on her skin. It was his teeth. Aleia bit back a whimper as she felt his teeth bite through her flesh. She could feel him hot and hard beneath her.  
In a matter of minutes, he was done. Aleia did her best to pretend enthusiasm and enjoyment, but as she felt him release inside her, she could have sworn he’d whispered a name into her ear.  
_Sansa_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never trust a handmaiden.


	43. Two Can Play This Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like there's oceans  
> Between me and you once again  
> We hide our emotions  
> Under the surface and try to pretend.

He wasn’t at breakfast either. Sansa sat alone on the dais, picking at her food and sipping the watered-down wine. The hall was quieter than it had been last night and more empty. Mychel had left before breakfast, bidding her a goodbye on the steps of the keep. Ramsay hadn’t even been there to bid farewell to the men who had helped him hold the North. He hadn’t come back to their rooms that night, but Sansa had expected that. She’d stayed up the whole night though, with Reek at her feet, listening to the singing of wolves.  
With what small appetite she possessed quenched, Sansa settled the plate on the floor and quietly told Reek to eat. She heard a whispered thank you and felt his slight body shift towards the plate of food.  
“Reek!” The table jolted when the creature at her feet leapt up in fear at the voice. Sansa heard him yelp as his head hit the heavy table. She turned in her chair to find Damon standing beside her, grinning in amusement. “Does it please you to fool a fool?” She snapped.  
“A fool now is he? I thought he was a pet.” Sansa turned away, too tired for his jests. “Anyway, he’s not supposed to eat without Ramsay’s permission.”  
“Ramsay would not wish for his pet to starve. Am I to tell him you told me to do so? Your time as his steward would be short lived.” Her tone was flat and she did not spare him a glance, choosing instead to continue to gaze out over the crowd. Occasionally, when the diners fell quiet, the three wolves could be heard howling. The other two had also changed their tune so it sounded just as ferocious as the third.  
“You look tired, my lady. Up all night? Waiting for someone?” She could hear the pleasure in his voice.  
“My husband did not return, so I listened to the wolves.” She gave a small smile and reached a hand down to caress Reek’s curls. “Leave us Damon, your Lord has more need of you than I, I am sure. You are his steward after all.” Even as he walked away, Sansa did not look at him, though she could tell he was annoyed. “Are you finished Reek?”  
“Yes m’lady.” He squeaked from beneath the table.  
“Good, let’s go back to our chambers then.” Sansa stood and left, walking a little slower so that Reek did not fall too far behind.

When she made it back to her chambers, she was almost surprised to find some of the handmaidens already there. Perhaps, after her night alone with Reek and the wolves, she had grown used to the solitude.  
The moment she entered, they all stopped talking and looked at her. Some smiled. Some giggled. Others hurriedly continued their work.   
Sansa spied Aleia over by the bed adjusting and smoothing the sheets. Her hair was down but Sansa could still glimpse bite marks at the base of her neck and dark circles had settled beneath her eyes, marring her beauty slightly. She knew all too well how such scars could effect a girl. There was a time when, despite the southern sun, she had been forced to wear long-sleeved dresses to cover the bruises King Joffrey had had his knights make. She had had to hide her scars as though she should be ashamed to have them; as though they were her own doing. Even if people at court had glimpsed them, they would have turned away. She could have gone out naked as her name day and they would have been blind to her suffering, though they would have scolded and ridiculed her for her brazenness.  
Sansa could not help the pity that cracked the mask she had been wearing, and she found herself staring at the handmaiden who now seemed to shine a little less brightly.  
When Aleia leant forward to flatten the sheets further, Sansa glimpsed a glimmer of red.  
She waited until the girl stood straight before enquiring after it. It was an ugly thing; a heavy silver chain holding an even heavier red stone that seemed out of place on such a sweet creature. Sansa’s eyes narrowed as she tried to recall where she had seen it before.  
“M…m’lady…” She turned at the gentle tugging of her dress to see Reek staring up at her.  
“What is it Reek?” His eyes were not on her. It seemed he had noticed the necklace too. “Myranda.” Reek whispered. That was it. Sansa looked back at the handmaiden and her necklace. She had seen Myranda wear it on special occasions. It had suited the old whore much better.  
Ramsay must have given it to her. How else would she have gotten it?  
Sansa felt the familiar jealousy begin to boil up inside her until Reek’s words rang in her ears; _he only does it because he wants to make you jealous_.  
“What is that?” Sansa inquired, moving towards Aleia with a mask of stone. The room went silent. Aleia’s face drained of blood as she turned to look at her. “It’s um…it’s a necklace my lady.” The girl stuttered.  
“Yes I can see that.” Every word was clipped and harsh. Once she was within reach, Sansa reached out to hold it and inspect it closer. She stared at it for a long moment before looking at Aleia with an ice cold gaze. “Where did you get it?” Sansa arched an eyebrow. Aleia began to tremble. “L…Lord Ramsay, my lady.”  
For half a heartbeat, Sansa considered tearing the thing from her neck.  
“That was good of him. I trust you pleased him well enough?” She smiled charmingly and let go of the necklace, rubbing her hands together. She could feel the dead whore on her skin.  
“I th…think so, my lady.” Sansa stepped a little closer so she could whisper in her ear.  
 “If you want to cover those marks, just take what you need. Powders, pastes…anything.” She stepped away, smiling. Aleia stared at her with a stunned expression which soon became her customary sweet smile. “My lady is too kind, thank you.” Aleia quickly finished adjusting the bed sheets, then left Sansa there to join the other ladies.  
“She’s a liar.” Nan seemed to appear out of nowhere.  
“What?” Sansa tried not to jump at the sound of her voice.  
“She’s a liar. Right until you walked in here, she was bragging about how good he was and how pleased he was with her. She says he fucked her five times and that he wanted to keep going but she said no because she was too tired. She’s lying, I can tell.” The girl was staring sullenly at the pretty little handmaiden and Sansa couldn’t help the feeling that Nan was telling the truth. Had she allowed herself to be fooled by Aleia’s sweet looks? Had she learnt nothing?  
Suddenly, tearing the necklace from around her pretty little throat didn’t seem like such a bad idea after all, but Reek’s voice filled her head for a second time; _he only does it because he wants to make you jealous._  
Sansa smiled to herself after a moment’s thought.  
“Thank you Nan. I shall take care of it.” The young girl looked up at her and Sansa was once again struck by how familiar she seemed, yet Sansa still could not place her. Before she could ask anything, Nan looked away from her and hurried from the room.

Ramsay was somewhat disappointed. When Sansa entered the Great Hall, her face was unreadable; a stone mask he had not seen for a long while. It remained in place even as she took her seat beside him. “Husband.” Her voice was clipped and distant. He could immediately tell he had irked her and it made him smile. “Wife.” He replied.   
“I trust you have had a pleasant day?” She asked, still not looking at him. The handmaiden (Aleia, was it?) moved in to serve their food and Ramsay looked at her, grinning. “Yes, and an even better night.” His grin widened as the girl blushed, glanced quickly at his cold wife, and hurried away; her hips swinging wantonly. Ramsay bit down on his lower lip.  
“So I’ve heard.” Her words did not register as he watched the sweet little whore disappear into the crowd.  
“Hm?”  
“So I’ve heard. She is a great beauty.” Sansa did look at him then, a smile playing upon her lips. Ramsay turned to face her, still smiling, but his brows furrowed in confusion. Sansa leaned towards him. “Perhaps she can get you started, tonight? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.” Ramsay’s smile died a quick death and he looked away sharply. He could feel his face turning red, though whether it was from anger or humiliation, he couldn’t tell. And what game was she playing? Suggesting he invite his new toy to their chamber. Was it just to embarrass him? Well two could play that game.  
“Very well. Have her join us in our chambers this evening.” He forced himself to smirk. Sansa just smiled in reply and sipped her wine; her eyes remaining locked with his all the while.


	44. Beg Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm a paper doll, you can tear me up  
> We'll be the broken lovers with the poison cup  
> And we'll draw in breaths like we don't have air  
> Oh god, look at me, don't you ever care?

When they reached their chambers, Sansa ordered all the other handmaidens out except for Aleia. Ramsay moved over to the bed, crossed his arms and grinned at her. Sansa looked him in the eye, refusing to waver. She would see this through to the end.  
“Well? Are you waiting for something husband?” She inquired, standing beside the chair in front of the fire. Ramsay arched an eyebrow. Sansa sighed as though frustrated by his mock-idiocy. She knew what he wanted her to do. Swallowing down the bile that tasted an awful lot like jealousy, Sansa turned to face Aleia. “Aleia, my husband wishes for you to remove your clothes and get him ready for me.” Aleia’s eyes widened in confusion.  
“My lady…I don’t…”  
“With your mouth, Aleia.” Sansa’s words were brisk and sharp, as though she were telling her to stoke the fire and drive out a chill.  
“Yes. Come on Aleia.” Ramsay added.  
“On your knees, like a good little whore.” The voice sounded so little like her own. The three wolves had not ceased their cries but they sounded further away now. Sansa and Ramsay continued to stare at one another, waiting to see who would back down first. Aleia looked from one to the other before resigning herself to her fate.  
Sansa continued looking at Ramsay as he did her, despite the pretty girl that was slowly disrobing in between them. Ramsay grinned at her, still not breaking his gaze as he unlaced his breeches, pulling them down to reveal his half-hard cock. Sansa couldn’t help but smirk at it.  
“Does something amuse you, wife?” His voice was a low growl, his grin slid away at the slight undermining of his masculinity.  
“No no. Carry on.” Sansa turned away momentarily and poured herself a cup of wine.  
“My lady…please…” Aleia whined.  
“I told you to get on your knees.” Sansa barked, tired of the girls false tones. “Maybe if you’re lucky my husband will find the head of the whore that goes with that necklace. Did we dip it in tar? I can’t recall.” Sansa leant against the back of the chair, sipping her wine nonchalantly. Aleia’s eyes widened with fright.   
“I think we may have done. The winter snows must have frozen it by now.” Ramsay almost laughed.  
“Now Aleia, get my husband ready for me.” Sansa ordered, smiling back at her husband. Aleia dutifully scrambled forwards on all fours, making Ramsay laugh, and leaned into her task.  
As Ramsay tilted his head back, Sansa turned away from him and put the cup back on the table. With her eyes fixed on the flames, she slowly began to undo her gown; her mouth set in a line of grim determination.   
When she was down to her smallclothes, she heard Ramsay gasp her name. “Sansa.” He sighed. She continued to undress until she was fully naked. “Sansa.” He was louder that time, calling out to her. “Sansa…come here…” His voice was low and throaty. Laced with satisfaction. Sansa turned; the firelight making her skin glow and her hair shine like copper. The look in his eyes told her what she already knew; that she was impossibly beautiful.  
“Pardon, Ramsay?” She smiled.  
“Come…here…” He gasped out. His right hand grasped the bedpost, his other was buried deep in Aleia’s hair, setting the pace. His red gaze was fixed on her, though pleasure kept forcing his eyelids to close.  
“Why?” Sansa picked up her cup of wine and drank. Ramsay grinned, enjoying the game. “Because…I want…you Sansa- _aa_.”   
She put the cup down and ran a hand through her soft hair. “You _want_ me? I didn’t think you did. I was sure you never wanted me again.”  
“No…” The word escaped his lips without his consent, she could tell from the irritation in his eyes.  
“You _do_ want me, don’t you Ramsay? You want me now. You want to be inside of me _now_. Is that so, Ramsay?”  
“Ah…yes… _yes…_ ” He closed his eyes and forced Aleia’s head up and down faster. She took it well. Clearly she was not as innocent as Sansa had first thought.  
“Beg me.” Sansa ordered.   
“What?” His eyes snapped open.  
“Beg me to come to you.” Once again, she leaned nonchalantly against the back of the chair. She could see the conflict in his eyes; how he was hating and loving every moment. How he wanted her, but could not bring himself to beg.  
“Maybe I should just leave…” Sansa moved to pick up her clothes and dress.  
“No! Sansa…come here…please…come here…”  
“Whatever for?”  
“Sansa, please! Fuck me!” He cried. He was too close for her liking and Sansa did not want his seed to be spent inside Aleia’s worthless, lying mouth.  
“With pleasure, husband.”

Sansa woke up to a feeling of blissful satisfaction and an empty bed.  
She sat up and looked around the room, but there was no sign anyone had been there for a long while. She vaguely remembered Ramsay leaving but was not sure if it had just been a dream or not. Once Aleia had done her job, she had been quite forgotten. Perhaps she had left soon after, Sansa did not know.   
“Ramsay?” She called in vain hope he might be in one of the other rooms or just outside the door. He made no reply. The windows let in a bright, cold light that made Sansa wince when she looked directly at it. Whatever time it might be, Ramsay must have had some business to attend to. Or perhaps he could just not bear to look her in the eye after last night. She might not recall him leaving her bed, but the sound of his pleas still rung clear in her mind. Sansa smiled contentedly to herself. To have such a man, her monster, beg her to please him was sweeter than the ache between her thighs.  
He might not be able to look her in the eye throughout the day, but come nightfall things would be different.  
It wasn’t until Sansa heard a scream that she realised the wolves had fallen silent.  
The scream she recognised as Aleia’s. Perhaps Ramsay had felt more humiliated than she’d first thought. Why had he not woken her? Why had he not told her? Aleia screamed again and it was clear that she was not within the castle walls. Ramsay had decided on a hunt. Sansa could not say she was sad to lose her, not anymore, but she still had expected Ramsay to tell her of his intentions.  
Sansa stood up and pulled the sheets tightly around her as she headed towards the window, thinking she might perhaps glimpse them on the moors. The snow remained pure and unmolested by screaming whores. Sansa wondered who Ramsay had taken on the hunt. Was Damon with him? Had he dragged Reek into the cold?  
She herself was alone in her chambers. The fire had died down some time ago and a chill had begun to settle in. Sansa would wait for one of the handmaidens to pluck up the courage to return.  
Wandering around the room aimlessly, clutching the sheet to cover herself, Sansa recalled every moment of the previous night. She was still tired from it and her legs shook slightly with every step. So much so that when she reached Ramsay’s desk, she collapsed onto the chair, still smiling to herself.  
Ramsay was hers again. Perhaps they had created another child last night. And this time she would take care. She would have another lying handmaiden taste her food and drink and Ramsay would not leave her side again. Then her son…perhaps she could convince Ramsay to name him Robb, or Bran, or…  
The letter on the desk screamed for her attention, or perhaps it had just been Aleia again.  
The flayed man of House Bolton had been snapped in half, the wax a deep red. The parchment itself was half opened; cast down carelessly, most likely only half read. When Sansa opened it up, it turned out there was not that much there to read.

_Scouts have sighted an army near the Bay of Seals._   
_They say it is led by Rickon Stark. The boy has his wolf with him._   
_I must summon the banners. Gather your men._

_Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and Warden of the North._

The parchment slipped from her fingers. Sansa’s mouth gaped open and Aleia’s screams replaced the ones she herself could not summon.  
Rickon was alive. He was alive and in Westeros. She had wondered…the third wolf…but Ramsay had told her…he’d told her he was _dead_.

She had not moved from the chair when he returned. Her feet were hitched up and she hugged her knees tightly, her eyes fixated on the floor. Even when he moved towards her, she did not look up. She didn’t even flinch.  
“Nan. Wine.” Ramsay barked. Sansa heard the young girl shuffle in, followed by Reek’s uneven gait. Ramsay said nothing to her, just moved over to the cold fireplace and slumped down into the chair with his back to her.  
“My brother is alive.” Sansa whispered, her voice barely audible.  
“Yes.” His voice was sharp and angry, yet Sansa did not give it up.  
“You told me…you told me Reek was lying, that my brothers were dead. You told me your father sent his hunter after them to have them both killed.” Her voice was louder now.  
“We did.”  
“ _We_?” It was more of a hiss now.  
“My father did.” Ramsay corrected. Sansa stood up sharply, still clutching the sheet to her bosom, not wishing to be naked in front of him. She moved until she was in front of him. Ramsay glanced up at her then looked away, irritated by the turn in events.  
“What will you do to him?” She dared to ask. Ramsay took a drink, swishing the wine around his mouth thoughtfully before delivering his answer. “He’s a threat. An enemy to the realm.” He set the cup back down onto the table and leant back in his chair.  
“An enemy? _An enemy!_ He’s just a boy…he can’t be more than ten years old.”  
“Yet he is old enough to summon an army.” Ramsay fixed her with a cold look. _Choose_ His eyes urged. _Choose.  
_ Sansa reached for the wine cup.  
“Sansa _no_!”  
Nan leapt forward and grabbed her arm with lightning speed, halting her hand.  
Only it wasn’t Nan.  
Sansa stared into the set of wide grey eyes, so much like their father’s. The Stark eyes. The girl suddenly looked fearful, but also angry at her own fear. She remembered that look. She _remembered_.  
“Arya…” Her voice was a mere whisper.  
Ramsay coughed violently  
“Arya.” The name was stronger now. Her sister released her grip on her arm and backed away. Sansa’s vision blurred as tears threatened to fall.   
Ramsay coughed again.  
“Gods…Arya…”  
“Ar-ya?” Ramsay gasped. Sansa did not hear him.   
Her sister’s eyes were full of fear and confusion and she continued to back away. It wasn’t until she was halfway across the room that Sansa realised. “Arya…no…WAIT!” She cried. Her sister span on her heels and bolted from the room, swift as a deer. Sansa ran after her.  
“San…sa…” She never even noticed her husband as he fell from his chair.  
“Arya WAIT! Please!” Sansa couldn’t understand. She couldn’t make sense of it. She had been Nan. Nan the serving girl. But she was Arya too. How had Sansa not realised? How had she not recognised her?  
“Arya!” She screamed just before her sister disappeared down a corridor. A moment later, Sansa turned down the same corridor and slammed straight into Damon. “Sansa? What are you…”  
“Did you see her? Did she pass you?” Damon’s tall frame blocked the entire corridor so that she could not slip around him. Her eyes were wild with confused desperation. “Who my lady?”  
“My sister, Arya…she was here…she went down here…how could you not…”  
“ _MASTER!”_ The agonised wail came from behind her and Sansa could feel the blood drain from her face. She could hear nothing but her own heart beating.  
“Oh…oh gods… _Ramsay_ …” Before Damon could ask her any more questions, Sansa span around and fled back to their chambers.  
Reek held his head in his lap; yowling like a dog. Sansa did not break stride until she flung herself down beside him. Ramsay’s face had turned a sickening shade of purple; a shade that she had seen before, only now it was not so pleasing.  
“Oh gods…no…no, no!” She cried. Ramsay stared up at her, his red eyes pleading. Bloody tears stained his cheeks and the same red ran from his nose as he clutched his throat, writhing and kicking in panic. “Do something! Please, please…DO SOMETHING!” Reek screamed, though whether he was shouting at her or Damon, Sansa could not tell.  
“Ramsay!” She screamed at him. “Ramsay…you can’t die. I _need_ you.” She thought of Roose Bolton, what he had promised to do once Ramsay was dead.  
Ramsay opened his mouth as though to speak. Instead, only a choked gasp escaped his lips. After that, his body fell still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **throws 'dead Ramsay' grenade and gets the fuck outta there**


	45. Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now he's gone, I don't know why   
> And 'till this day, sometimes I cry   
> He didn't even say goodbye   
> He didn't take the time to lie.

She thought he might look as though he were sleeping, but he didn’t. He didn’t even look like himself. It wasn’t the scars; she had almost grown used to them. He just looked so…lifeless. The spirit was gone from him. He could have been anyone. Sansa wasn’t sure if it was these faults that prevented tears or whether it was just that she had none left to shed.  
“What should be done with him?” The question was meant for herself, but Damon answered anyway.  
“The Godswood, perhaps.”  
“Like his beloved step-mother? A fitting pair. I wonder if he has met her in the seven hells yet, stuffing her face with pies.” Sansa spat bitterly.  
“My lady.” He growled. “She was guilty of nothing.”  
_She was a Frey._ “Should I not speak ill of the dead, Ser? Why? They can’t hear us.” _I wouldn’t feel so alone if they could_. Sansa continued to stare at his face, unable to tear her eyes away from the man who had been her husband. The stranger had a handsome face, despite the scars. Sansa tilted her head as she remembered his smile, though in her head it soon became a sinister smirk. It made her shudder.  
“We must send word to Lord Bolton, immediately. Before he thinks…” He was cut off when Sansa grabbed hold of his arm; digging her claws in tightly.  
“Please, Damon…you can’t.” Her eyes remained lifeless, but her voice was cold and pleading. Damon remained unperturbed. “Do you think word has not been sent to him already? Do you think he does not have people watching for him?”  
“Of course I know about them. He told me. But do you know who else he sent for? You told me this was the work of a faceless assassin. Who do you think hired her? Roose has wanted Ramsay dead for longer than I know. Even more so when I was married to him. He is our enemy. We must not let him into Winterfell.” Sansa refused to admit Roose’s wishes to wed her. The thought of it made her wish for her own cup of poison. _Poison._ Sansa closed her eyes, but it was Arya’s face that came to her now; frightened and defiant. _It had been her_. Sansa was certain.  
“You know who else is my enemy? Your brother has landed with an army. I was the one that brought Ramsay the message. You think the garrison here will stand for you? These are Roose’s men. They will stand for him over you. I know what you want to happen. You want for your brother to come and save you. Well here is the truth my lady. The men here know that if he is let in they will be slaughtered like sheep, and no amount of lies could convince them otherwise. Do you know where your brother has arrived from? Skagos. Do you know what they do on Skagos? They eat human flesh. So if you think these men will stand for you and protect you from Roose, you are dead wrong. You could suck the cock of every man here, and he would still hand you over. No man wants to cross Roose.”  
_But I am not a man_.  
“And would you?” Sansa asked, never even looking at him. “You were Ramsay’s loyal friend. Will you betray him in death?”  
“The dead can’t hear us. You said so yourself. You aren’t worth my skin.” His tone was casual, riddled with a bit of grief.  
Sansa turned to face him; her mask of stone firmly in place as it had been from the moment Ramsay’s frantic writhing had stilled and he had ceased to breath.  
“Where is Reek?” She asked coldly, revealing none of her intentions.  
“In the kennels.” It were almost as though Damon couldn’t bear to look at her. “He refuses to see anyone though.”  
“Refuses? You are aware of how weak he is, aren’t you?”  
“He is grieving.” He growled.  
“As am I.” She snarled back.  
“Really? I see no tears my lady.”  
“Mourning weakens you. Better to channel your grief through other means. I have no intention of harming him. He is my husband’s creature, and that he shall remain until he joins him in the seven hells.” With one last, hard look, Sansa swept from the hall.

Reek was exactly where Damon had said he’d be. “M’lady, he won’t see no one.” Ben grumbled.  
“I am not no one.” She’d snapped in reply, her gait never faltering despite the dirt beneath her feet. But as she neared the back of the kennels, her feet began to drag and the barking of Ramsay’s girls made her flinch. _I must not be afraid._ How could she be? It was only Reek.  
The pen looked empty at first glance, but Sansa persevered; peering into the gloom.  
“Reek?” She called out. A small figure began to rock; the darkness moving as though he were nothing more than a shadow. “Go. Away.” The darkness whispered.  
“Reek, why are you hiding? You haven’t done anything wrong, have you? Must I have you dragged out? I do know how to flay you, remember?”  
“GO AWAY!” He shrieked.  
“He’s gone Reek. I know…I understand…”  
“NO YOU DON’T!” Reek wailed. “I’m nothing…nothing to anyone…nothing to anyone but Ramsay. Oh master…” The shadow shuddered as the sobs tore through him.  
“You are something to me. Make your choice Reek and do it quickly. You can serve me, or you can serve Roose. You know what he’ll do, don’t you? He has no need of Reek. But Theon…Theon might be useful to him. Who better than to declare my brother as a fake?”  
“No! Not Theon! Reek! Reek! My name is Reek!” The darkness screamed.  
“I do not want you to be Theon. DO you know what I would do to him? He is of no use to me. He betrayed my brother. I want my husband’s pet. Are you still Ramsay’s loyal bitch Reek?”  
Sansa backed away. She did not smile; her lips remained as still as stone and as cold as snow. The darkness continued to shriek and she left him to it. He could weep into the darkness all he wanted, but in the light he must be that loyal pet. The one she remembered when they had watched over Ramsay’s body. The one that had growled at Lord Bolton. The one that had listened to her.  
She wanted _her_ Reek back.  


	46. Damage Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pick it up, pick it all up.  
> And start again.  
> You've got a second chance,  
> you could go home.  
> Escape it all.  
> It's just irrelevant.

He road straight to the Eyrie, only to find his Lord closer than expected. Lord Baelish had descended the mountain that had been seized by winter’s cold grip and had moved to the Gates of the Moon.  
Ser Mychel did not even change. The snow on his boots followed him down the hall and some still remained by the time he reached Lord Baelish’s chambers. Littlefinger did not even look up from him desk. “Ser Mychel. I had not expected a visit from you.” He said, still scratching at some parchment with his quill.  
“It was not my intention to be here at all Lord Baelish. The bastard sent me away. He sent us all away, may the gods damn him. And Lady Sansa did nothing. She seems to accept his word as law now.” Mychel raged; pacing up and down, partly out of anger and partly in an attempt to gain some feeling back to his fingers and toes.  
Littlefinger glanced up, then continued with his writing.  
“I do believe she has fallen for the monster. Then, when he ignores her, she does her best to make him jealous. I believe she had the whore killed out of jealousy too. Whether it is love or lust she craves, I cannot be certain. But Lord Ramsay has her enchanted. And him of all people! Some even say she is mad now. I have half a mind to agree with them! She has forgotten this game you are playing Baelish. I would even go as far as to say she has failed you.” That made him look up, at last. Petyr sighed and put down his quill; fixing Mychel with his cold stare. “Failed me?”  
“She appears to be serving her own agenda now.” Mychel admitted, finally ceasing his pacing.  
“Her own agenda?” Petyr’s raised eyebrow was enough to make him second guess his words.  
“Y…yes.”  
Petyr’s face creased as he smiled. “You must be weary after your journey, Ser Mychel. You should go and rest.” He advised, resuming his work. Mychel was too stunned to move. “My lord, are you…what are you going to do?”  
Littlefinger chuckled. “It is not what I am going to do. It is what has already been done.” He glanced up at Mychel again with a hint of amusement and accomplishment in his eyes. Before looking away, he picked up his goblet and took a long drink of wine. “I thank you for your service, Ser Mychel.”  
Mychel narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but he said nothing. Turning on his heel, he left the player to his game.

When she slept, she got no rest. The dead would speak to her and scream at her, as they had done before. Only now, sometimes, Ramsay joined them. He blamed her for his death sometimes, other times it was the death of her child or the fact Reek was now constantly at her side.  
Tonight though, Ramsay remained silent. It was her family around her. Her mother and father, Robb and Jon. Lady was there too.  
“Avenge them.”  
“Promise me.”  
“Send him my regards.”  
“Avenge them.”  
“Promise me.”  
“Send him my regards.”  
Sansa awoke and for half a heartbeat thought the figure beside the bed was Lady. “Lady.” She whispered. Then Reek’s eyes twitched open and stilled her outstretched hand. He stared at her questioningly and she forced herself to smile, not letting him see the grief and fear she felt inside. Reek’s lips twitched into what could have been a smile, had it not been interrupted by a snore that came from beside Sansa. She rolled her eyes and sat up, only glancing at him quickly before turning away in disgust; shuddering as she remembered his hands on her skin.  
Wrapping herself in a sheet, she got out of bed and began to dress herself. She was well practised at it now after she had dismissed all her handmaidens.  
“M…m’lady. Where are you going?” Reek whispered.  
“That is not your concern Reek, but tell _him_ he needs to get to work and be gone by the time I get back.”  
“M’lady…he won’t like me telling him what to do…” He whimpered. Sansa sighed, but tried her best not to be frustrated with him. Her hold on Reek was fragile and she did not wish to break it. “Tell him I told you to do it. Tell him he is looking at what will become of people if they lay a hand on my Reek.” Once Sansa was done fastening her cloak, she turned and knelt before him, cupping his face gently, but her eyes searched his for any hint of distrust. “You _are_ my Reek, aren’t you pet?” She asked, her voice dangerously low. Reek whimpered. He was silent for a moment but Sansa allowed it. She knew it was hard for him to remember sometimes, and even harder for him to let go of Ramsay. “Yes m’lady.” He answered softly.  
Sansa held her breath and kissed his forehead. “Good pet. I shall expect breakfast when I get back.” Reek clearly tried to suppress his smile, because he knew breakfast meant he got fed too. She forced herself to smile again, leaving him to his small happiness as she left the room.

“What in seven hells is going on?” He roared at her as he entered the Great Hall. The woman sat the Lords’ chair like she was born to be a queen; a crowd of fifteen men gathered around her, all dressed in armour and armed with swords.  
“Good morning to you too Damon.” She smiled. Somewhere in the distance, the wolves began to howl again.  
“You are aware there is an army at your gates?” He growled.  
“An army? I thought you were experienced in military matters. My men counted one hundred soldiers. No more. Hardly an army.” She could have scoffed it but she didn’t. Instead, her face remained cold and calculating.  
“I warned you about this. Things will be a great deal worse for you if you try to keep Lord Bolton out. These men will not risk their skins for you.” That did make Lady Stark smile.  
“Is that so? Again, you have underestimated.” She arched a delicate eyebrow. “I have no intention to keep Lord Bolton waiting. As long as he accepts my terms.”  
“You terms?” He gritted his teeth as though fighting against a bit.  
“Firstly, my husband’s body will be taken to the Dreadfort and be interred in its crypts, as a true Bolton ought to be. Secondly, he recognises my brother, Rickon Stark, who has returned to Westeros, as the Lord of Winterfell…”  
“This is madness…”  
“Thirdly, Lord Bolton accepts my marriage proposal.” He could see her swallow the bile from his place beneath the dais.  
“My Lady?”  
“Lord Bolton and I will be joined in matrimony before the gods.” Damon was stunned into silence. “As you were so willing to open my gates for Lord Bolton, you shall be the one to deliver my terms.” Sansa stood up abruptly, making Reek who had been curled up beside her chair, sit up to attention. He followed her as she headed towards the council chamber. “Tell Lord Bolton that these are my terms and that he would do well to accept them. The wolves are closing in, and they are craving flayed flesh.” The words sounded alien and bitter from her soft lips. Damon watched her go and found himself unable to move until three of her guards escorted him from the hall.


	47. I Remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someday these walls will speak  
> The floors beneath you creek  
> To call my name  
> Here in my web of dreams  
> My whispers turn to screams  
> And place the blame

Even when climbing the stairs up to the maesters chambers, her pet remained by her side. He had grown a little stronger since Ramsay’s death. Probably because of all the food he’d been getting, and the fact she allowed him to sleep inside every night. Sansa did not mind the change in him. She wanted him stronger.  
“Have you sent a raven?” Sansa asked as she pushed open the door, not waiting for the maester to get his bearings.  
“My lady, it is an honour…”  
“Yes yes, have you sent a raven?” She managed to refrain the urgency from seeping into her voice. She didn’t want the maester to see her stone mask slip.  
“I did my lady, but…”  
“But?”  
“But it was shot down.” Sansa could not tell whether it was his age making him tremble, or fear. She stepped closer to him and the trembling grew worse. That was her answer. Her smile was hard to conceal behind the mask but she did her best.  
“It was shot. Down.” She repeated, moving closer until he was forced to bow his head so that their faces wouldn’t touch. “I’m sure your letter to Lord Bolton made it through well enough. Send two ravens. An archer cannot shoot two at the same time. If you do not get a raven through those lines, I will flay each of your fingers; one for every raven that falls. Is that understood?” As the maester muttered his yesses, Sansa made a silent vow to rid herself of him the moment she was done.  
“Very good. Tell me the moment one of your birds gets through.” Turning, she left the tremoring man to his task. If one of the birds had been shot down already, no doubt Roose already knew of what she had been planning. No matter. It meant he’d want to go through with it all quicker in order to secure the North for himself.

Later that evening, Sansa supped in the chambers that had belonged to her and Ramsay, with Reek at her feet. Once they were done, she sat in the chair he had sat in and drank more wine, with Reek’s head in her lap, moaning as she ran her fingers through his hair. Sansa sighed and stared into the flames.  
“M’lady?” He squeaked. She could feel him tense against her leg.  
“What is it Reek?” Her voice was gentle. She tried to refrain from using her cold voice and stone mask when she was alone with Reek. It helped remind her of who she was.  
“M’lady…w-why are you marrying him?” She looked at him then.  
“Are you questioning my intentions Reek?” She expected him to cower away. Instead he lifted his head from her lap and looked her straight in the eye.  
“He killed master. And…and he killed…he killed Robb. Master told me. He shoved a knife through his heart.” When he was done, he was out of breath. The fight had gone out of him as soon as it had come, but Sansa had not missed it. Clutching his face in her hands, she forced him to look at her. “You remember.” She whispered. Reek whined. “You _remember._ ” He twisted out of her grasp.  
“No!”  
“Hush Reek.” It was more of an order than a means to calm him, but he ceased squirming all the same. Sansa moved her face towards his so that they were level with one another. “I remember too. I remember everything.” She promised. “I will marry him, but it will only be for a short while. A man and wife must share their wedding night together…alone.”   
Reek’s eyes widened.  
“Yes Reek. You recall my wedding night with Lord Ramsay don’t you?”  
Her tone had darkened without meaning to and she could feel Reek try to pull away.  
“I do not forget. I will never forget. Things don’t always go the way you plan for them to, do they Reek? But we must assess the damage. Control it. I must play my part, as you will yours. And when this farce is done, Lord Bolton will be dead, and my brother will be Lord of Winterfell. Like it should be.” Her eyes remained on his, but her mind was far away. When Reek began to sob, she was brought out of her dreams. “Don’t worry Reek. My brother won’t hurt you. You haven’t done him any harm, have you? Unless there is someone you aren’t telling me about…someone who’s trying to wake up…”  
Sansa smiled to herself as he burrowed his face into her lap.  
“No! M’lady, never! Good Reek! Loyal Reek! I’ve always been Reek!” He wailed.  
“Yes pet.” Sansa cooed. “I know.” She stroked his head gently, smiling contentedly and turning her gaze back to the flames as the creature sobbed into her lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this short, shitty chapter. I just thought y'all deserved something as I haven't uploaded in a while. Hopefully this chapter cleared up any confusion about Sansa's intentions.


	48. Lady Bolton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her eyes  
> She's on the dark side  
> Neutralize  
> Every man in sight

Unsure whether the cold was due to winter or her guest, Sansa did her best not to shiver. She wore a thick woollen cloak as well as her wolf pelt, though she had chosen it so he was less likely to touch her skin. The weather had not even been considered.  
Standing strong and still as the signal was given and the gates were wrenched open, Sansa held her breath until the first rider came into view. They all wore their armour with the visors down on their helmets, concealing their faces. It made them all look like toy soldiers; there was nothing human about them. Roose Bolton wore a heavy woollen cloak; the drapes stretched out over the haunches of his horse. In the cold light, she could have sworn it glimmered red, as though it had been soaked in blood. She could not see his face either; he too had lowered his visor.  
_I did not think him to be such a coward._  
“Welcome back to Winterfell, Lord Bolton.” Sansa called. The man dismounted. Sansa narrowed her eyes as he walked towards her. Her hand clasped the hilt of her dagger; the cloak concealing her movements. It wasn’t until he was towering over her that she spoke again. “You are not Lord Bolton.” She growled. The man wrenched open his visor. Damon grinned down at her.  
“No. But it was an honour to play the part.” Sansa would have spat in his face were it deemed fit for a lady.  
“Forgive me, my lady.” All thoughts of striking Damon were driven from her mind and channelled instead towards the owner of the other voice.  
Roose Bolton lifted his own visor and dismounted, removing the helmet as he strolled over. “It was simply a precaution.” He said once he’d reached her. For a moment, it looked as though he were going to take her hand and kiss it. But Sansa did not give him the option. Both her hands remained concealed beneath her cloak; one still resting on the hilt of her dagger.  
“Precautions my lord? Surely you do not mistrust your bride to be so readily. A man and wife should trust one another, should they not?”  
“Aye.” Roose Bolton’s lips stretched so that he could almost be smirking. “But we are not yet man and wife. And marriages such as ours are built on convenience and politics, not trust. Otherwise however would we be here in the first place?” That was true enough. Sansa never would have married Ramsay for anything other than political reasons. Trust would have been laughable at the time.  
“You must be hungry, Lord Bolton. You’ve been at my gates for some time.” Sansa did not allow the triumph to show on her face. She would get nowhere trying to outwardly one-up Roose Bolton.  
“If it please my lady.” He offered his arm.  
Sansa walked away. There were some things she just could not yet bring herself to do.

They dined together, just the two of them. Except for when Sansa’s wine cup was empty. Reek stumbled into the room and poured her another cup. “Lord Bolton’s too, Reek.” She ordered. Lord Bolton watched her carefully as maimed, unsteady hands poured his wine for him. Sansa stared back as she drank her wine, watching him over the rim; daring him to drink from his own cup.  
“I am surprised to see him still breathing.” He inclined his head towards Reek, who dipped his head, pretending not to know he was being spoken of.  
“Reek has not wronged me in any way.” Sansa pointed out, glancing at Reek.  
“Theon Greyjoy has.”  
“It’s a good thing Theon Greyjoy is dead then. If I saw him, I’d kill him all over again.” Sansa’s voice was cold as ice, but Reek did not so much as shiver.  
“Very well.” Roose Bolton gave her that look. The look he used to give Ramsay when he was displeased with him. Sansa did not allow it to irk her. She didn’t crave his approval like Ramsay did. “Though we’ll need Theon Greyjoy for the wedding.” Roose’s lips stretched into that chilling smile again. Sansa had to refrain from rolling her eyes. “Reek will play his part, won’t you Reek?”  
“Yes m’lady.” Sansa couldn’t help but smirk when the answer was instantaneous.  
“Well then,” Roose held his cup up slightly. “To our wedding.”  
“Our wedding.” Sansa downed the wine in one gulp, holding back a grimace as it burned her throat.

The wedding was a short one, with only the garrison in attendance. They all stood unblinking, as though they had simply been ordered to stand there. Sansa was sure she could claim the marriage invalid simply because no one had actually witnessed them exchanging vows. Even Reek was unable to watch. Damon did though. Sansa could almost smell the glee on him. He was loving her discomfort, despite how hard she tried not to show it. Every time Roose so much as touched her, goose bumps would crawl over her flesh and she’d have to grit her teeth so she wouldn’t shudder.   
If the ceremony was pathetic, then the feast was pitiful. Neither the bride nor groom spoke. Sansa struggled to eat any of the five course meal. What’s more, Reek was sat at a table at the far end of the hall; not at her feet where he usually ate. She comforted herself by his apparent distress. Every time someone passed him he flinched and his eyes were as wide as plates.  
The courses might have been meagre, but thankfully wine was in abundance. There was no music to dance to, but the attendees seemed to be too drunk to care. The men that had once been Ramsay’s sat at the back of the hall, dicing and laughing carelessly. Damon was among them.  
Sansa had had perhaps too much wine and her mind began to wander. His face and that foolish laugh irritated her. A lot. She considered ways of having him killed. Ramsay wasn’t around anymore, it wasn’t as though he had a protector. It could be amusing. And she could make it some form of distraction whilst Rickon and his army grew closer.  
Sansa laughed to herself.  
Yes, it could be distracting indeed. If she were to tempt Damon into her bed. If he were to be caught. Perhaps she would not even need to get him into bed at all. All she would have to do would be to get Roose to suspect. She could just say it had been nothing…he had simply tried to touch her…  
Roose was the kind of man that hated to be slighted. Perhaps he would have Damon flayed for it.   
Sansa was so deep in thought that she was at first unaware of the steady rhythm of pounding cups. It grew and grew until the noise was deafening and made her ears ache. She looked around in sudden confusion, to try and decipher what was occurring. A cry went up amongst the feasters. To Sansa, it unnerved her as much as a battle cry might.   
_Bed, bed, bed!  
_ Sansa glanced over at her new husband. He looked no more amused by the prospect of a bedding ceremony than she did.   
“I think our guests wish to put us to bed, my lord.” Sansa pointed out, smiling. Roose nodded. When he began to speak, the room fell silent as though they had all seen a ghost rise from the grave. “I take it by this sudden commotion you all wish for the bedding?” He asked. Sansa was surprised to see a cheer go up. They must’ve been well into their cups if they wished to cheer Lord Bolton. “Well who am I to deny you? Commence with the bedding ceremony.”  
It was frightening; seeing so many men charge at her. They lifted her from her seat and carried her down the length of the hall. Sansa didn’t even know most of their names. The strangers stripped her of her clothing; discarding the garments and leaving a trail of them as they went.  
_He could have at least taken me to bed with his dignity intact_ Sansa thought angrily.

She was down to her name day garments by the time they reached her chambers. Her chambers, not Lord Bolton’s. Sansa found that oddly comforting. It was the room in which he had had Ramsay killed. A fitting place for his own death.  
Lord Bolton took a few more minutes to arrive, so the men that had carried her took their fill; feasting their hungry eyes on her bare flesh. Sansa considered covering herself but soon relented. _Let them look._ Wolves wore no clothes, and she was as beautiful as she had ever been; the moonlight shone through the windows and gave her skin a ghostly glow. They all crowded around the doorway, watching her as she moved around the room. She decided to busy herself by unpinning her hair; brushing out the strands until they shone too.  
When Roose entered the room, he looked almost surprised to see her roaming around so freely for all the men to see. Sansa smiled as he ushered them away with a wave of his pale, spidery hand.  
“The first night Lord Baelish stayed at Winterfell, Ramsay tied me to the bed, gagged me and raped me in front of his men and his whore. I learnt my lesson about what dignity is worth then.” Sansa continued to smile, positioning herself beside the window where the lighting hit her best.  
“Get on the bed, Lady Sansa.” Lord Bolton commanded, clearly not up for conversation.  
_Perhaps he’s already close, just by the sight of me.  
_ Sansa bit back a snort of laughter as she obeyed his command.  
Her amusement died quickly as Roose began to undress.   
“It was a quick ceremony. Though I suppose you didn’t want to wait around. It’s clear that my brother’s army isn’t too far away. Each time the wolves howl, they sound a little nearer. Not that they should face any problems. You recall my terms? My brother is to be Lord of Winterfell.” Sansa kept her eyes on his face, even as he removed the last of his garments. The paleness of his flesh made her feel ill. Ramsay had been pale too, but handsomely formed and in his prime.  
“Yes, I recall.” Sansa barely heard the words.  
_Gods, I wish it was Ramsay that were here with me now._  
Memories of their last night together came flooding back. He’d fucked her hard and she’d loved every second. The bruises had lingered for weeks after, and she had counted each of them before she’d gone to sleep at night; pressing down on the purple flesh until they ached. For a time, she had dug a little harder, forbidding them to fade. But she had soon come to terms with the fact that they wouldn’t bring him back, and it didn’t replace the feeling of him inside her.  
The ropes of the bed creaked as Roose slid in beside her.  
If Ramsay had not died, would they still share those painful, satisfying nights? He had been angry about Rickon. Perhaps he would have blamed her for it. He always did seem paranoid about her loyalties. He’d even believed that she’d murdered their son. _Our little Eddard_.  
When she felt Lord Bolton’s hand on her thigh, she spread her legs dutifully.  
She’d never had anyone inside her other than Ramsay. Would it feel different? Margaery had spoken about how women all had their preferences. Was that just concerning looks, or did it also concern what occurred in the bed chamber?  
As Roose forced his way into her, Sansa was sure she’d found her answer.  
_I’d rather you were Ramsay._  
He grunted with the effort of each thrust. Ramsay used to growl. She’d grown to like that; it felt raw and animal, as though they weren’t even human any more.  
After a while, the feeling of him inside her grew to be pleasant, but Sansa couldn’t bring herself to wrap her legs around him and meet each thrust with her hips. She needed him well worn out, and by the time his seed was spent and he pulled out of her, he was. His laboured breathing filled the room. Sansa’s heartrate had barely risen.   
“I trust I pleased my lord?” She asked dryly. Roose did not reply. His breathing slowed.  
_Is he asleep already?  
_ Before she could lean over to check, he swung out of the bed and stood up. Sansa gathered the sheets around her and sat up, frowning. “My lord?” Roose Bolton began to dress. “My Lord, what are you doing?”  
_No, it was not supposed to end like this ._  
Lord Bolton did smile then. He didn’t even have to touch her now in order to make her skin crawl.  
“Do you honestly think I would let you murder me in your bed, Lady Sansa?” His voice was so cold it made her shiver. “Do you think I am such a fool that I desire your flesh so much as to remain in your bed? Believe me, wife, I have less craving for passion then I do your body. But if it pleases you, I would say you were pleasant enough, in the dullest sense of the word.” He slipped on his linen shirt, leaving his jerkin where it was on the hard stone floor. “Goodnight, wife.” Sansa hissed as he called her that. Ramsay had called her that too.  
Sansa was out of the bed in an instant, clasping the sheet to her breast. Before she reached him, her feet tangled in the fabric and she stumbled onto the floor. By the time she’d scrambled back onto her feet, Roose had gone, and locked the door behind him.  
“No.” Sansa growled at the wood. “Let me out!” She slammed her palm against the door. “You can’t do this! I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell!” She screamed, but as far as she could tell, no one was listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning to write a more graphic version of the wedding night but I didn't have a sick bucket near me and I didn't want to risk my carpet. Sorry.


	49. Brave Pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the rules are changing now  
> You're living in sin  
> Everything around you is caving in  
> All you're holding on to  
> Slipping like water through your hands

At the sound of the door opening, Reek raised his head.  
“No. Let me out! You can’t do this! I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell!” He heard her pounding on the door. Peering out from amongst the shadows, Reek watched as Roose Bolton waited for the pounding and the screams to cease before smiling his chilling smile and striding off down the corridor. Reek slinked back into the shadows, momentarily contemplating if he would be able to sneak after him. _I could do it. He killed Master…and…_  
And Robb.  
Yes, and now…  
From beyond the door of Sansa’s chambers, Reek heard her sobbing. He hadn’t heard her cry for a long time. She hadn’t even cried when Master had died, but that was because she was strong and brave. Stronger and braver than he could ever be. But she was crying now, because she was afraid. It was like before…with Master…before she had become… She had changed after Lord Baelish had come and visited. She’d stopped crying and Ramsay had listened to her.  
But now it was happening all over again. Theon wasn’t sure he could bare it a second time and without Master there, Reek feared what Theon might do.  
Swallowing that thought before it could trouble him further, he crawled out from the shadows, certain Lord Bolton was long gone, and approached the door warily. He could still hear her weeping against the wood.  
“M…m’lady?” He whispered. The crying stopped and he heard her shuffle closer to the door. “Reek?” She sniffed. “Is that you?”  
“Yes.” His remaining fingers ran along the bottom of the door and he tried to wedge them underneath until they began to hurt.   
“Reek, you have to do something for me.” Her voice was clearer now; all trace of grief and fear gone from her voice. Reek stopped clawing at the door and pressed his ear to the wood. “You need to get me out of here. He’s locked me in. I can’t stay in here Reek…not again…I have to get out. My brother is coming. I have to help him. Please Reek. Get me out of here. Please…” Her voice faded away, all the strength draining out of it, though Reek could have sworn he heard her utter the words “Promise me.”

Moving as quietly as his maimed feet would allow him to, Reek moved down the corridors; a flinching, shuffling shadow. Lord Bolton’s chambers weren’t all that far, though they seemed a long way on his trembling legs. “Promise me.” He whispered to himself, over and over until it became a chant and, for perhaps the first time ever, Reek felt brave. Not Theon, Reek. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with sneak._ Yes, he could sneak.  
He was almost there now; his legs moving faster than they had done for a long time. He was so close. If he could just sneak into Lord Bolton’s chambers, find the key, Reek could rescue her. Then she could finish off what she’d planned. Reek hoped he’d let her watch. _He killed Master. He killed Robb. He locked up Lady Sansa_. Reek could do it…he would do it…he was so close…  
“Good evening Reek.” His once-quick pace froze to a halt. His courage fled with his last calm breath. The figure stood up from outside Roose Bolton’s door and stepped into the moonlight. Reek began to tremble when Skinner’s face split into a wicked grin. “Now what would you be doing outside Lord Bolton’s chambers at night?” The man didn’t move any closer, but Reek dipped his head all the same and whimpered fearfully.  
“Must’ve been sent by his mistress.” Reek leapt forward, crying out at the sound of someone behind him. Turning, he saw Grunt and Luton blocking his only escape.  
“Is that right Reek? Do you work for that bitch now, is that it?” He was too afraid to do anything but whine and ring his hands together. Almost without realising it, he sank to his knees; going onto all fours.  
“How could you betray your master like that Reek? He thought you were a loyal pet. _His_ loyal pet. Was your master wrong?”  
“NO! Good Reek! Loyal Reek” He cried, covering his face with his hands; sobs shaking his frail form.  
“Loyal, is it? What do you think boys? Do you think the bitch is lying to us?” They all laughed as Reek’s sobbing became louder.  
_Master’s dead. She’s all I have left now. She’s the only one who cares._  
“Let’s take him to the kennels, where he belongs.” Rough hands dug into his shoulders and arms; twisting and clawing as they dragged him backwards. Reek tried to cry out, to scream for help until a hand clamped over his mouth and the sounds were muffled. Not that there had been anyone to hear his screams in the first place. With Master dead and Lady Sansa imprisoned, there was no one to care about what happened to Reek.  
Realising the truth of it, Reek slumped and ceased to cry out; allowing them to drag him away without a fight.

He was partly dragged, partly carried, all the way down into the kennels where the other boys were waiting for them. A cheer went up when they caught sight of him. “It was just like Lord Bolton said. The little bitch came marching down to save his mistress like the well trained pet he is. Though he seemed a lot braver than we’re used to.” Skinner laughed, throwing him down inside a pen.  
“Brave? Has our pet grown some balls? Are we going to have to chop them off again Reek?” Sour Alyn scoffed.  
“Please…don’t…mercy, please!” Reek screamed, huddling on the ground as soon as they threw him down. “Not brave! Reek, Reek! Rhymes with weak and meek!” He yelped as Skinner’s boot slammed into his ribcage.  
“Quiet bitch. Your master isn’t hear and we aren’t that amused by your rhyming.” Skinner grinned down at him as the others closed in. Reek continued to plead quietly. “What should we do with him?” Luton asked. They all crowded around, contemplating his fate. “Whatever we like.” Yellow Dick chuckled darkly. Reek whined in reply. “There’s no one here to save him now, is there? No one to tell us what we can’t do. Not anymore. His master’s dead. His mistress being taken every which way Roose Bolton wants and kept in her rooms.”  
“As she fucking should be. Stupid bitch, thinking she can run things like some fucking Lord.” Skinner spat.  
“I hear she fucked the castellan Lord Bolton left. That’s why they didn’t open the gates for him.” Luton added.  
“Typical. Moment her husband dies she spreads her legs for anyone who asks. Pity she’s married, I might have asked for a go myself. Haven’t tasted much highborn cunt, let alone…shit!” Reek’s remaining teeth sank deep into Yellow Dick’s ankle. The men all fell silent and stared at the pet in confusion. Reek glared back; bloodied teeth bared. In the silence, they heard him growl.  
“Well look at you. What is it pet? We insult your mistress? Are you trying to defend her honour? Don’t bother, we’ve all seen her, remember?” Sour Alyn laughed. Reek growled again. They all joined in the laughter then, watching something so small trying to look so ferocious.  
“Come on, this is get boring now. Pull his pants down. I bet he’s missed this! Or maybe Lady Sansa’s into that sort of thing? Is she Reek? She did always keep you in her bedchamber.” Reek released a sound that could have been a bark. Chuckling, they all moved towards him.  
The dogs in the kennels had heard Reek bark, and joined in; slamming their bodies against the cages, biting at the bars. Reek lowered his body slightly and eyed each man as they moved closer. He bared his teeth again. All thoughts of fear were gone from his mind. He remembered this feeling when Lord Bolton had visited him and Sansa in the maester’s chambers whilst master was injured. It was pure rage; adrenalin pumping through him and making him tremble uncontrollably. Reek released another growl in warning. They ignored him. As Luton reached out to grab him, Reek leapt forward and sank his teeth into the flesh. He felt the hot blood gush over his chin. He was deaf to the agonised cries. Even the kicks and strikes they dealt were dulled. All he could focus on was the taste of blood and the feeling of flesh between his teeth.  
Eventually he was torn away from the hand and thrown against the wall; landing with a sickening crunch. Pain shot through his shoulder and he howled, but immediately tried to get back onto all fours and defend himself again. “You bad bitch Reek! Bad pet! You’ll have to be punished for that. Maybe we’ll knock all your teeth out. Won’t be able to bite us then, will you?”  
Before they could move any closer, the whistle and crack of a whip sounded. “That’s enough.” Damon called, cracking the whip again until they turned around.  
“Fuck off Damon. Lord Bolton has told us we can do what we like.” Yellow Dick spat.  
“Within reason. He needs him to play the Lord for him, remember? Or did that not get through your thick skull Dick?”  
“What, you licking Lord Bolton’s boots too now? Stick your tongue out, I want to see if it’s turned black.” Skinner growled. Damon cracked the whip again. “You won’t be able to tell from all the way over there. Why don’t you come and take a closer look?” Reek held his breath. They all eyed the whip warily before Skinner turned back to Reek. “Next time, little bitch.” He hissed. Grudgingly, they all left the kennels, glaring at Damon as they went. Damon met each gaze; continuing to run his hand up and down the shaft of the whip. Once they were all gone, he moved towards Reek’s pen. Scrambling backwards, Reek kept his eyes on the whip, waiting for the first strike to come. Damon didn’t even enter the pen. Instead, he closed the door and locked Reek inside, pocketing the key. Reek exhaled with relief, feeling safe inside the pen. He continued to stare at Damon, his eyes shining in the darkness. Damon just stared back and gave a slight nod before disappearing from view. Reek listened to his footsteps as his master’s friend left him there in the safety of darkness.


	50. Memories and Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though it hurts me to say  
> I don't know you that way  
> I guess the writing's on the wall  
> I don't know you at all

The days were long but the nights were longer. Lord Bolton did not return to her rooms the first night, nor the second, or the third. On the fourth, when Sansa could stay awake no longer, he returned. Having not slept for three days, Sansa was too weak to fight. She hadn’t eaten much either. All her meals were bought to her not by handmaidens, but by men in the service of her new husband. Occasionally they were men she knew. The first one she recognised had once been one of Ramsay’s boys. Skinner, was it? “Please, Ser, please let me out of here!” She’d begged sweetly. The man had done nothing but glare at her until she fell quiet, set down her food roughly and left without another word. The next one had been Luton. She’d glimpsed a bite mark on his hand and couldn’t help but ask. “Was that Reek? What has happened to him? What have you done to him?” Luton grinned at her but said nothing. Of Reek there had been no sign since she’d sent him off to Lord Bolton’s chambers. Sansa feared for him. Thinking of him kept her mind off her own troubles. The next man to bring her meal had been Sour Alyn. Sansa’s patience had worn thin by then and her mind and body craved the sleep that she was too afraid to take. “Playing handmaiden now are you? I suppose it must be a step up from whatever the fuck you were before.” She’d sneered. Alyn had growled and threw the plate of food to the floor. “You’re as bad at playing handmaiden as you are at oral hygiene.” Sansa had growled back. The man looked as though he would smash her face in, then Roose’s voice must have filled his head as he left her there to the mess of food.  
Damon never came. Pity. She could have done with a distraction.  
Instead, she just waited. Waited for Lord Bolton to return. For any sign of Reek or her brother. For any chance of hope. After those first four days, she learnt to rest regularly. Sansa took to sleeping throughout the day; her body waking itself around the time her meals would be served so that she was always ready and waiting. She had learnt how to be a light sleeper after Ramsay had been injured and she and Reek had had to guard him. With Roose, she learnt that he was a lot stronger than he appeared.  
Every time she attempted to rid herself of him, she found herself overpowered. Once she had kept a knife that came with her supper and launched herself at him the moment he’d walked through the door. It had swiftly been torn from her grasp, with two fingers being pulled out of joint in the process. After that, she had refused to lie with him. He’d dragged her to the bed and forced himself on her; apparently oblivious to her strikes and kicks. One time, she’d gone willingly with him and ensured she was on top before wrapping her slender hands around his pale throat. Roose had smiled, climaxed, and disentwined himself from her grasp as though she were a child who refused to let go of him. That had angered her so much that she had attacked the door until her fingers were bloody and she’d lost three fingernails to the wood.  
He was not immune to pain though. He was made of flesh and bone like any other man, and Sansa did her best to hurt him, especially when he was inside her. She’d bite and claw at him until his pale flesh was slick with blood. She’d dig her fingers in so deep she left bruises. Roose would grunt in pain but it never seemed to slow or stop him from climaxing. If anything it seemed to speed him up.  
Her nights with Ramsay were somewhat foggy now, but she recalled how he had enjoyed her claws tearing at his flesh or her teeth sinking into his shoulder. One time, after Roose had left, Sansa caught herself thinking of how the son was the shadow of the father. But that had angered her beyond belief. Ramsay had been nothing like Roose. He had been a monster, for sure, but he had become her monster. And he would show mercy and was kind to her and gave her pleasure and love. The pain he had caused her only meant that she cherished his kindness all the more.  
Sansa could feel her memories of him slipping away. She feared it; sometimes holding her breath until she felt dizzy through not wanting to forget or let the memories escape. _I’m going mad_ she told herself, pacing through the rooms that had once been hers and Ramsay’s and hardly recalling a thing. She took to moving throughout the room at least once every hour that she was awake. With a pale hand, she would stroke an object and force herself to remember. The door; how Ramsay had pushed her against it on their wedding night and forced his way into her for the first time. The fireplace; how he had dragged her by her hair and held her face just out of reach of the flames after she confessed Littlefinger’s plans. The window; how she had readied herself to jump when it had all become too much. The bed; so many terrible memories would fill her mind. A new one would resurface for every time her hand rested against the headboard.  
After a time, Sansa found that even when she was not completing her ritual, her mind would always be trained back to the memories until one day only one question remained in her mind.  
_How could I have ever loved such a monster?_


	51. In Your Head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But you see it's not me  
> It's not my family  
> In your head, in your  
> Head they are fighting

The food was left untouched at the door. The men that brought it couldn’t even see her unless they tried to. She hid in the corner. In the shadows. They couldn’t even tell if she knew they were there. She was so far away; drowning in memories.  
Eventually, when they began to fear she would starve to death, Roose Bolton abandoned his council and battle plans to see what had become of his wife.  
Stepping into the room, he waited for the attack to come. But it didn’t. Circling the perimeter, he found her in the far corner; huddled against the stone. “Lady Sansa. Why are you hiding?” He asked softly. Two teary blue eyes peered up at him; filled with disbelief and hope.  
“Please…make him stop…please…” She whispered.  
“Make who stop?”   
“My husband…my sweet, sweet Lord…please, don’t let him hurt me anymore…” Sansa begged. Roose crouched down in front of her and searched for the trick in amongst the blue. He found none. “I am your husband now, Lady Sansa, remember? Ramsay died and I came here and we were married in the Godswood.” Her eyes gazed up at him, unseeing and confused.  
“He died?” She gasped.  
“Yes.”  
“But I can hear him! He screams at me. He screams at me and promises to hurt me. To tie me to the bed again, to push me on the fire, to throw me from the window…please make him stop…”  
“Hush, he cannot hurt you now.” Roose promised, his voice stern. “You must eat something.” Sansa reeled away in fear of food.  
“No.” She growled. “I will starve myself. I will die. At least then he will stop.” Roose stood and she stared up at him, her mouth set in a determined grimace. Then she crumpled again. “Please take me out of here. Anywhere else…I’ll go anywhere, just not here, not these rooms where he can come back.” Her eyes looked up at him beneath a curtain of hair; large and pleading.  
“Alyn! Skinner!” Roose called. Sansa scrambled further back into the shadows. “Move Lady Sansa to my chambers.” He ordered.  
“No! Not them! Please, they’ll hurt me…please don’t make me go with them! They’ll hurt me again!” Sansa screamed, but Roose had been lenient enough. Leaving the men to overpower her and remove her from the room, Roose returned to his plans.

Reek was relieved when the next face he saw was Damon’s. Damon moved quietly considering his size. He slowly opened the door to the pen slowly so his movements gave no indication Reek should fear him. For a moment, he considered crawling forwards and kissing the man’s boots to show his gratitude, but then he remembered that this man was not his master, or Lady Sansa. In fact, Lady Sansa hated this man. Reek couldn’t crawl towards him. He shouldn’t go near him at all. Like a good pet, he remained at the back of the pen; eyes shining as he watched.  
“Hungry Reek?” Damon pulled a bowl of cooked, cut up meat from behind his back. The dogs began to go wild at the scent of it. Reek’s remaining teeth began to ache as saliva formed. He _was_ hungry. Reek was always hungry. Damon set the meat down at his feet. “Come here pet.” He ordered. The scent of a trick fouled the scent of the meat. Reek remained where he was.  
“Come here, pet.” Damon said again, nudging the plate towards him with his foot.  
“No.” Reek muttered, his hand clutching the bars beside him.  
“Come on pet.”   
“No! I can’t!” He wailed, gripping the bars harder.  
Damon moved towards him, stepping over the bowl of food. Reek cowered low, covering his head with his arms. He could still feel the man towering over him, despite his attempt to hide himself.  
“Reek. Look at me.” Damon ordered. Somehow, Reek ignored him. Lady Sansa hated this man, and she had not given him permission to talk to him.  
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, pet. Now come and eat your food.” Reek continued to hide his face, but he did not move.  
“Are you going to disobey me pet?” Damon’s voice with smooth and Reek heard a familiar amusement. And still he stayed as still as stone. Damon sighed and retreated to the door.  
Reek screamed when he heard the whip cut through the air.

They dragged her, weeping and begging, through the halls. All the servants saw the pitiful Lady treated so roughly by the two brutes. They saw. They hated. Lady Sansa may have changed from the innocent maid some remembered, but she was still a Stark, and a young girl with not a friend in the world.  
Sansa continued to wail pitifully until they reached Lord Bolton’s chambers.  
“Please…don’t…please!” She screamed, her cries ringing through the castle. From beyond the walls, wolves began to howl.  
“Mad bitch.” Skinner growled, glaring down at her. Sansa cowered away from them, still sobbing loudly, screaming out at random moments and flinching as though she were being struck at. “Best take out all the things she might harm herself with. Lord Bolton will skin us alive if he finds her hanging from the beams.” Alyn grunted his approval and the two left the weeping woman whilst they set to their task of searching the room.  
“No! Please stop…please don’t…NO!” Sansa screamed again, curling up into a fetal position to protect herself from the ghost that tormented her still.  
“Let’s go. Leave her to the voices in her head.” Alyn chuckled darkly. Skinner nodded in agreement and followed him back to the door.  
Sansa waited until they were gone before standing up. She wiped away the tears. Of course, she had to whimper now and then loud enough so the people outside could hear. First, she struck herself across the face, over and over until there was a red mark that promised a bruise.  
Pulling up her skirts, Sansa pinched and grabbed at her thighs and hips until ghostly handprints appeared on the pale flesh. She left a few scratches on her legs too, cutting deep until there was a thread of blood.  
Walking over to her husband’s bed, Sansa returned to her face. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop herself from crying out as she smashed her nose against the bedpost until it was a bloody mess. The hot red gushed from her nostrils and she collected it in her right hand whilst hoisting her skirts up again with the other. Sansa closed her eyes and smiled as she slathered her thighs, cunt and backside with blood.  
Satisfied with her work, she collapsed onto the hard floor and waited for her husband to return.


	52. You're To Blame For My Misery, Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you could see yourself now, baby,  
> It's not my fault, you used to be so in control.  
> You're going to roll right over this one.  
> Just roll me over, let me go

Skinner and Alyn weren’t hired for their intelligence. No doubt they didn’t even consider the possibility of eavesdroppers. Many servants had heard the rape take place and had witnessed Lady Sansa being forcefully dragged down the corridor, begging for them to stop.  
The punishment for rape was the hacking off of their genitals. The punishment for raping Lord Bolton’s wife was flaying.  
When her husband had returned to her that evening, Sansa had still been a bloody mess on the floor. It had taken some coaxing from him for her to confess what had occurred. A very believable performance. Sansa had congratulated herself. Of course the addition of the noises and screams had added to the effect and the servants had heard it too, meaning there were a mass of people who could stand against Skinner and Alyn’s denials. And deny they did, right until the skin was peeled from their bodies. Then they confessed their crimes in the vain hope it would be over with sooner. How wrong they were.

He was stripped down until he wore nothing but a collar. It was cold in the kennels and he had been left like that the whole night for disobeying. For not calling _him_ master.  
_He is not my master. I belong to Sansa.  
_ Usually, Damon whistled a cheery little tune in greeting; whatever frustration he had felt the day before erased by a good night’s sleep. But today there was no whistling and Reek’s shivering was no longer due to the cold. When he peered through the bars, face obscured by shadows, Reek whimpered. The face was thunderous, monstrous and terrifying. He wasn’t even inside the pen yet but Reek still cowered away from him. “Have you got something to say to me pet?” Reek knew what he wanted. He wanted him to beg for his clothes back and to call him master. Clutching his collar, Reek forced himself to shake his head. He heard Damon sigh, then came a sharp, grating sound as the gate was wrenched open. Quivering, he scrambled backwards as far as he could go.  
“Get on all fours Reek.” Damon ordered, towering over him.  
“No!” Reek barked.  
“All fours. Now.”  
“N…no.” He squeaked. Damon’s booted foot slammed down on his own naked one, making him yelp as it rubbed the stumps of toes long gone. “Reek. Obey, or I’ll break your foot.” Damon’s tone was unfaltering. Reek had no doubt he would. But how could he obey? He was not to obey this man unless Lady Sansa commanded it, and she had not.  
_But she isn’t here. Where is she? She’s been gone for weeks. You haven’t seen her once. She’s forgotten all about you._  
Reek whined, and screamed as Damon twisted his foot, grinding it down onto Reek’s. “All fours!” He roared.  
_She’s forgotten all about you._  
Sobbing, Reek yelped as he slowly went onto his hands and knees, trying his best not to move the newly broken foot. He closed his eyes and felt salty tears on his cheeks. With what front teeth remained to him, Reek bit down on his lip as he waited for Damon to move away and that familiar bite of the whip to tear through his back.  
He couldn’t suppress the groan of relief that escaped him as Damon’s warm, rough hand stroked down his spine. “That’s right Reek. You surrendered and I rewarded you. That’s what a master does when their pet behaves, isn’t it?”  
Reek whined, sensing a trick.  
“Isn’t it?” Damon’s hand pressed down harder on his back. It didn’t hurt, but the gesture alone was threatening.  
"Yes.” Reek whimpered, his back arching beneath the heavy touch, trying to flex away from it.  
“Yes, what?” Damon pressed harder. Reek’s lips remained clamped shut and he shook his head frantically. Damon’s heavy hand slowly dragged down along his back. As it continued down towards his backside, Reek squirmed away, eyes bulging in terror. Damon followed him, towering over him once more. “You can blame Lady Sansa for this Reek.” He growled, forcing him back onto his hands and knees. Reek could in no way match Damon’s strength and so settled for a fearful wail that sent his canine companions howling. “Lady Sansa?” Reek gasped as he felt Damon starting to try and spread his buttocks.  
“Yes Reek. She set up two very good friends of mine and had them murdered for rape. I’m very angry with her Reek. You know who is going to have to suffer don’t you?” He continued to whimper and writhe pitifully, crying out as Damon roughly shoved two fingers inside of him and began to stretch him.  
“Reek?”  
“Yes, that’s right pet. And why are you suffering?”  
“Because…because Lady Sansa hurt your friends.” He sobbed. Damon removed his fingers from inside him as roughly as he had inserted them, leaving a burning sensation behind. When Reek felt Damon start to position himself behind him, he panicked. “No! Please, you can’t! I’ve never had anyone…no one other than…please, not that…” He cried, trying to turn and face him. Only Ramsay could do this to him. Only Ramsay.  
“He’s dead pet.” Damon did not growl, if anything he sounded a little disconcerted. The hand that grasped his hair was not so gentle. Reek sobbed uncontrollably as his head was forced back down. “I’m your master now. I’m doing this because of Sansa. You are hurting because of Sansa.” Reek screamed as Damon pushed into him in one harsh thrust. “This hurts because of Sansa. I could have been merciful and used oil, or spit at least, but I didn’t. Why is that pet?”  
“Because you’re angry.” Reek wailed, his mouth now open in agony, snot mixing with saliva as the pain of having him inside him grew too much.  
“And who am I angry at pet?”  
“Sansa.”  
“Why are you being hurt Reek? Who is to blame for this?” Reek winced with each thrust, but even they didn’t compare to the pain he felt as he said her name.  
“Sansa.” His voice was barely a whisper.  
“Who pet?” Damon gripped his hips and began to thrust harder and deeper so Reek’s next word came out as a scream.  
“SANSA!”  
“And who am I?” Damon roared back, thrusting so hard that Reek was sure he was bleeding and he wouldn’t be able to walk for days. “Who am I Reek?”  
“MASTER!” Damon came as Reek shrieked the word, collapsing on top of him, crushing him beneath his weight. “Master.” Reek whimpered again, though it made it no less painful.


	53. Cherry Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her eyes and words are so icy  
> Oh but she burns  
> Like rum on the fire  
> Hot and fast and angry  
> As she can be  
> I walk my days on a wire

Following the incident with Skinner and Alyn, Roose kept his wife with him. Like a loyal pet, she followed him around the castle; head down, speaking only when spoken to. One could not wish for a more compliant wife. Sansa’s stone mask never faltered. Roose was wary of course, ever cautious. He was careful not to leave anything that could be used as a weapon around and always made sure she ate the food and drank the wine first. Yet Sansa seemed to have had all the life sucked out of her. She was but a cold shell. Hollow. Frail. At night she sometimes woke up screaming, but Roose did nothing to settle her. She settled of her own accord, rarely ever releasing a whimper. Occasionally she cried out names in her sleep too. Names of those long dead. His bastard’s name was the most frequent, usually followed by a pale limb thrashing out in fright. It made Roose smile to think how the memories tormented her so, and how they had driven her into submission.  
So far, there was no sign that she was with child. He kept careful watch over what she ate and drank, ensuring she did not try to drink moon tea. He had her checked by the maester once a week too, to prevent her trying to rid herself of their child without him knowing there had ever been one.   
The lack of an heir did not matter for the moment. Roose’s main concern was the heir beyond the castle walls. Despite the onset of winter and the heavy snows, reports came in almost every day that yet another northern lord had declared their loyalty to Rickon Stark. The boy’s army grew and grew. Roose knew a siege would be upon them soon enough. He had tried sending out riders to forage for food and remind the northern lords who ruled. But wolves had torn each party apart. One ranger had lived to tell the tale. “Three of them. Monstrous beasts. Bigger than horses…swallowed them whole. One white, one black, one grey.” He had sent out men to kill the beasts. It seemed they were always one step ahead. What’s more, they seemed to be moving closer. Every night, their howls filled the castle.  
His wife had remained unmoved by their cries.  
His wife remained unmoved by anything, which is why he felt it was time for Damon to show him his progress. At dinner that evening, he had summoned the boy. “I wish to see how well you’ve progressed with your pet.” Damon simply nodded, bowed and left them. He chanced a quick glance at Sansa who was too busy sipping her wine to notice him.

Damon quickly grew frustrated with Reek’s stumbling gait. His time in the kennels had left him weaker too as Damon had not thought to exercise him. More than once on the journey to Roose’s chambers, they had to stop to allow Reek a chance to get his breath back. Every staircase seemed like a mountain, and Reek would heave and huff once he reached the summit, whining due to the pain in his limbs but too afraid to complain. The cold probably didn’t help either. Damon had grown a bit too fond with the whip of late and Reek’s back was a mess of bloody scars and weeping sores. It was more painful for him to wear a tunic, and he had allowed him the mercy of going without one, despite the fact he was about to be presented to Lord Bolton.  
Finally, they reached the door to Roose’s chamber. Damon forced his frustration away and tugged his jerkin, smoothing his hair to neaten himself up. There was nothing he could do to neaten Reek up, but Lord Bolton would wish to see his work no doubt. “Remember Reek, you look at no one unless I tell you to, understand?”  
“Yes master.” Was the immediate reply.  
“Very good pet.” Damon grinned. He couldn’t wait to see her face; to see that stone mask slip away and reveal the anger and jealousy underneath.  
Still grinning, he knocked.  
Silence.  
Damon knocked again.  
_Silence.  
_ He frowned. It had not taken them that long to reach his chambers had it? Perhaps they had retired without waiting for him. “You were so slow they’ve fallen asleep on us pet.” Damon jested. Reek wrung his hands uneasily; staring at the wooden door. Damon wondered what the chances were of getting his hand flayed if he opened the door without consent. But Lord Bolton _had_ requested to see him. And if they weren’t within, what harm could it do?  
Damon’s blood ran cold as he took in the sight of Roose Bolton slumped in his chair; eyes wide with shock. There was no fear there, Roose had long been incapable of showing such an emotion. “My lord?” The call was more of a reflex than anything. Lord Bolton made no reply. There was no weapon, no blood. But the gaunt, almost blue face was all the evidence Damon required.  
Poison. A woman’s weapon.

The poison had tasted as sweet as the cherry wine, but the courage it had taken to do the deed was even sweeter. She had known Lord Bolton was a cautious man. He had always made sure she had the first bite and took the first sip. The chances of her drinking too much had been high. She had to make it convincing. There had been a moment when she’d felt the darkness closing in and wondered if she’d get the antidote in time. But she’d fought through it, though Roose had been drawing his last breaths when she’d stood over him and said “Robb Stark sends his regards.” She’d wanted to put a knife through his heart too, but she wasn’t sure how long it would take for Damon and Reek to return.  
She'd had her suspicions about what had become of her pet. Damon had never come to her to gloat like the others had. It would take no small thing to stand in the way of his gloating. And now he had Reek too.  
That was fine. Sansa had her own…pets.  
Night had fallen; the darkness broken only by the snow that fell. The winter wind bit at her face and she pulled the hood up higher. Her cloak was white, white as snow. Once within the Godswood, no human eye could separate her from the snowy limbs and snowdrifts. She was the ghost of Winterfell. As silent as the wolves had become beyond the walls. They too knew something was afoot.  
Sansa Stark drifted through the night; her face and mind as cold and hard as winter. Once she reached the far wall, she did not feel the cold as her bare hands pushed away the snow and the ivy that had formed a curtain.  
The door groaned as she wrenched it open.  
“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for my lack of activity this past week. The Sansa muse was sleeping, or most probably drowned out by another that won't stop screaming at me to write her story (seriously Eff, write out your own goddamn problems)  
> Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for it! Things are going to move a bit quicker from here onwards.  
> Also, I had my last exam today. I'M FREE! I'M FREE OF THE EDUCATION SYSTEM! Or I would be if I wasn't going to uni.  
> **does a happy dance** I'm free I'm free. Hopefully now I'll have more time to write too.  
> Anyway, I'm babbling now. Just want to say, thanks for sticking with this story even if I haven't been meeting the bar, I really appreciate all the support I get from readers **gets all teary** I love you guys.


	54. Lady of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cause she's just like the weather, can't hold her together  
> Born from dark water, daughter of the rain and snow  
> Because it's burning through the bloodline

The warning cries rang out loud and clear. Men ran about the keep, blinded by panic and fear, though there was nought they could do. Of Lady Sansa there was no sign. No one had seen her leave the castle and rumours ran through the servants like wildfire; that the Shewolf had grown wings and flown from the window to join her brother’s army, and that she would return sharp toothed and thirsty for more vengeance. There was no doubt that Lord Bolton had been poisoned by her hand. It was a grievous crime to murder ones husband, and the man whom had discovered Lord Bolton’s still and startled form had screamed for her head.  
They found her in the Godswood near the break of dawn; knelt before the Heart Tree, praying for forgiveness most likely. Five men, armed and armoured, approached her from behind whilst exchanging nervous glances between one another. She had murdered their Lord, that much was true, but what would they do without her? She was Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell and now the Dreadfort too. They had been ordered to kill her by a man no higher born than themselves.  
“I pray you all will not be so foolish as to take one step closer.” She did not stand. She remained knelt before the tree; head bowed, hands clasped. From where they stood, they could not see her face and it looked as though she had not spoken at all. It were as though the woods had spoken for her.  
But the Bolton men were no fools, and they were not the type to allow a woman to demean them. They were of the North; cold and harsh.  
“Arrogant cunt.” One of the men spat. He took a step forward.  
He came from nowhere, silent as a ghost, his white fur making it hard to tell where the snow covered woods ended and the wolf began. The others watched the wolf appear; the blood that spattered his white fur revealing the beast. Once their friend had fallen still, the wolf turned on them and bared his bloody teeth.   
“I did try to warn him.” Lady Sansa was on her feet and facing them now; her pale face framed by the fiery red waves of her mother, a demure smile pulling at her rosy lips. “Does anyone else dare to slay me before the Gods?” She asked, glancing at each man in turn with a gaze colder than Lord Bolton’s had ever been.   
She was winter. She was the North.  
Feral growls rumbled through the trees like thunder and two more wolves appeared on either side of her. They were no ordinary wolves. All three were almost as tall as Lady Sansa herself. One watched them hungrily with bright green eyes and snapped at Sansa when she settled a gentle hand on his side; pale fingers slipping through coarse black fur. Sansa did not flinch away from his bared teeth, nor did she take her hand off of him.  
The grey beast was just as big, but did not complain when Sansa buried her hand in her fur. She held her head high, fixing each man with a vengeance filled glare. Pent up anger released in low, relentless growls.  
The white one moved away from his kill and went to stand between the men and his pack; his movements as skilled and smooth as that of a trained warrior. Silent. Deadly. He crouched low, snapping his sharp teeth, ready for an attack.  
The Bolton men shivered collectively at the sight of them all, standing as a pack before the Old Gods. The remaining Starks, rallying together, hungry for enemy blood, and led by the Shewolf. The woman responsible for the death of their Lord and the fall of House Bolton.  
Throwing down their swords, they ran.

“Damon!” He span around at the sound of Luton’s voice. Grunt was with him too. Their faces were grave, their concern mixing with fatigue.  
“What is it?” He asked angrily.  
“They’ve found her, the five men sent to search the Godswood.” Luton informed.  
“And they brought her head out and nothing else?” Beside him, Damon heard Reek whimper. It only served to spur his anger on.  
“She’s got the beasts with her. One white, one black, one grey. The wolves have come again, the men are saying. The white one ripped a man apart. They won’t let anyone hurt her.” Grunt nodded in silent agreement.  
“The fuckers aren’t immortal Luton. We have crossbows don’t we?” Damon snapped, clenching and unclenching his fists, longing to punch the grim look off of Luton’s face.   
“The wolves are as big as horses. She could ride away on one if she so wished.”  
_If only_ Damon thought, pressing his knuckles to his forehead.  
“We could torch the place. Leave her the Lady of ash and bone. It’s what Ramsay would have done. Order the men to start fires.”  
“Ramsay is dead Damon. And besides, why should the men follow you, eh? You aren’t the fucking Lord of Winterfell. Some here have already begun to loot and flee. They would rather take their chances with winter than be ripped apart by direwolves, and I’m of a mind to go with them. Dick’s already gone. The Shewolf will show us no mercy. She had Skinner and Alyn flayed for a crime they didn’t commit for the sake of vengeance. The bitch is fucked up in the head.” Both Luton and Grunt glared at him and he could tell they would rather stab him in the back than help him defend the castle, and all the Bolton’s had worked for.  
“Fine. Go if that is what you want. I can’t stop you. When winter takes you, give my greetings to Lord Ramsay. I’m sure his dancing and singing and feasting in hell, you’ll all have a merry time there.” He grimaced.  
“We hope you’ll join us soon enough. A feast would be dull without your sick humour.” Luton grinned back. The men all smiled and nodded a farewell to one another.  
Once his friends were gone from the chamber, Damon turned on his pet.  
“And why is it you whimper so pet? You don’t fear for what I may do to Lady Sansa do you?” Reek bowed his head.  
“N…no…master, never. Reek only loves master…only master…” He sobbed; his tears wetting Damon’s boots.  
“Very good Reek, because you remember what I did to you, don’t you?” Reek’s head snapped up to look at him and he cowered away.  
“Y…yes master.” His pet squeaked.  
“And why did I do that to you pet?”  
“Because of Lady Sansa. Because she had Skinner and Alyn killed and they were your friends and she is very bad. Very very bad.” He was babbling in panic, afraid he would feel the bite of the whip though Damon was not even carrying one.  
“That’s right pet. Now, I think it’s time we got some troops of our own, don’t you?” Reek peeked up at him, his whimpers ceasing and his brow furrowing as he tried to work out what Damon meant. Damon grinned at his confusion. From somewhere within the Keep, a woman screamed. More frightened shrieks followed and a stampede ensued as the servants attempted to run from the wolves within Winterfell.


	55. King of Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you see the sparks feel the hope? You are not alone  
> Cause someone's out there, sending out flares  
> Someone's out there, sending out flares

Damon tried not to let himself sleep, but as night fell and there was no sign of Sansa, the bodies looked too warm for him not to lie down amongst. It was more a case of survival than anything else. Damon crawled in beside his pet, clutching him tight and ordering the dogs to close in around them; their thick winter coats allowing for extra warmth.  
When morning came, he was woken by the sound of rattling chains. He groaned and looked up over the pile of sleeping bodies. Sansa stared back at him, smiled, and continued fastening the heavy chain and padlock. “Of all the places I expected to find you, crawling up with Ramsay’s bitches was the last. But it appears you are willing to take everything he once had. His father, his castle, his pet.” Damon groaned again as his back complained after its long night on the cold ground.  
“On the contrary my lady. Lord Ramsay can keep his wife. I’d rather fuck his actual bitches than take that slut to bed.” He growled, standing up on weak legs. Sansa continued to smile. “Then it seems you are in luck! You are in the right place for it, and fucking those girls as well as Reek might help to keep you warm. My brother is coming, Damon, and the snows with him.” He staggered forwards until his face was pressed against the bars of the entrance to the kennels. “Though you might want to pick a favourite. Soon enough it won’t be your cock on your mind, it’ll be your empty stomach as it groans and begs, desperate for food.” Damon’s face clouded over with rage as Sansa slid the key into a pocket. She didn’t flinch when he rattled the door with all his might. “You want to leave me in here? Fine. But Reek is with me too. He’ll die before I do.”  
“Reek is a most resilient creature. He’s used to these conditions. But you are right of course. I’ve been forced to make some very tough decisions during my life, and I shall miss my pet very much. I know you will try your best to keep him alive. After all, he was Ramsay’s special bitch. You’ve got a lot of hard decisions to make too now Damon. Eat these dogs and freeze without their warmth at night, or stay warm and starve without their flesh to eat. Hmm…” Sansa pressed a finger to her cheek. “Decisions.” Damon watched her as she walked away, desperately trying to think of something he could say that would penetrate her stony exterior.  
“Or I could just eat him.” That made her turn around, frowning, an amused smile dancing upon her lips. “Your brother’s army is made up of Skags. If he’s going to be eaten by anyone, it should be by his master. And that’s who I am now. His master. He hates you, because everything terrible and cruel I did to him was caused by your actions.” Damon grinned as he watched her smile fade into a snarl. “Should have thought twice about having Skinner and Alyn killed.” He added. Sansa looked as though she were about to spit at him, but she seemed to recall her courtesies just in time and turned her back on him.  
Once she was gone from sight, Damon tried rattling the gate loose again but to no avail. The chain links were an inch thick and he had nothing to saw through them with. He had chosen the kennels because Ramsay’s girls were trained to kill wolves. Even if each one had been torn to pieces by the beasts, it would have allowed time for him to slip a dagger between her ribs whilst they were distracted. Damon could die happy as long as he was dragging the bitch down with him.

She had sent some serving boy out on an old nag with a message for her brother, informing him and his men that Winterfell’s gates would be open to welcome him home. She sent messages to all the Northern Lords too, informing them of the sudden downfall of House Bolton. She had not included all the details. People would talk, word would spread and her deeds would appear to be far more heroic and harsh. She also read through the many letters her late husband had stashed away; about the death of Stannis Baratheon, and how his Red Witch had promised him he would live if he were to burn his daughter alive. Clearly it had not worked. Sansa considered it a pity, though perhaps it was for the best. From what she knew of Stannis Baratheon, he was not a man so willing to share power. Sansa had spent her life playing the part a man chose. Joffrey, Petyr, Ramsay, Roose. Now she had power, she would not hand it over to a man so readily. Her brother must have seen no more than ten name days. He would have a lot to learn before he could rule on his own. Sansa had learnt from the very best, and would be a willing teacher.  
For now however, she would play the part of Lady Stark of Winterfell.   
Once she caught a pair of grooms trying to steal away with sacks full of whatever had remained after the initial looting. Sansa remembered Cersei’s advice and had their heads removed and placed on spikes to prevent a similar incident. Other than that, she was kind to those that had remained. But she trusted no one and always kept one of the wolves by her side. Nymeria preferred to roam, and Shaggydog preferred the darkness. But Ghost was always by her side, except when she bathed or dressed. There was something oddly familiar about him, though they had not seen one another in years. His silence was comforting, but at times she found herself missing Reek’s whimpers and whines. They’d made her feel powerful. She could not expect Ghost to kneel at her feet and lick her boots. He was a wolf, and Sansa knew better than anyone still living that no one could truly tame a wolf.

The courtyard seemed empty when they gathered to welcome her brother home.   
From the corner of her eye, Sansa could see two pale faces pressed against the bars of the kennels, watching. It had been almost four days since she’d visited Damon and Sansa smiled to herself as she wondered what his choice had been; food or warmth. There was no lack of water. The snow had been relentless and Sansa believed it was a sign of her brother’s homecoming. The King of Winter. The Son of Winterfell.  
They heard them first and Shaggydog released a wild howl, sending the horses screaming in fright and the dogs yelping and whining. Sansa settled an uneasy hand on Ghost’s side and the wolf snapped silently at his black brother. Shaggydog snapped back, but a nip from Nymeria cowed him and he slumped ungraciously onto his haunches, his ears twitching impatiently. Behind them, the remaining servants glanced about fearfully, unsure of what to expect from their new Lord.  
There were no banners. No horns or shouts to signal their coming. The Skagosi men seemed to dwarf their horses as they shouted and hooted to one another. Sansa had ordered the maester to tell her all he knew about them. It was rumoured they descended from giants; that Sansa could believe. They spoke in their own rough tongue too. She looked hard for any sign of horns protruding from between their horses’ eyes, but there were none. The little girl that had withered inside Sansa was a little disappointed at that.  
Some of the Skaggs eyed her hungrily, but Sansa did not notice. Her eyes were focused instead on three mounted figures that cantered through the gates on shaggy ponies; riding knee to knee. She could immediately tell they were not Skagosi. The one on the right was a tough, weathered looking man with receding hair and a salt and pepper beard. On the left was a woman; her face hard, her eyes suspicious, brown hair tangled like a birds nest.  
Between them was a boy. Sansa was almost frightened by how unfamiliar his face seemed. He looked around the courtyard, staring hard into each face, ready to fight anyone who might approach him. Then his eyes scanned the castle; seeing everything, recognising nothing.   
The three of them pulled up to a halt, the man and woman eyeing her suspiciously. Rickon didn’t even seem to notice her. “Shaggy!” He burst out, his tongue thick with an accent Sansa was unable to recognise. Before the adults could stop him, her brother had leapt from his horse. Shaggydog sprang forward.  
Sansa gasped and started forward a little as boy and wolf collided in a mass of fur and flesh, claws and fists. The Skagosi laughed, the woman smiled, even the man seemed to grow younger at the sight before him. She held her breath, looking around desperately, wondering why no one was worried for her brother.  
Finally, once the snow around them was spattered with blood, the two pulled apart. Rickon sat, panting heavily, his backside cushioned by snow, though he did not seem to feel the cold. His trousers had been made from wool, a fur pelt wrapped around his shoulders and an axe slung across his back was all he wore. Sansa felt colder just looking at him and buried herself deeper into her cloak. King of Winter indeed.  
“Brother!” She called. The boy turned to look at her, frowning. He seemed to study her for a moment before standing up and turning fully to face her. Shaggydog moved closer towards him and the boy clutched onto a handful of fur fiercely before staring into the creatures eyes. When her brother’s eyes met hers again, his look was no longer full of suspicion.   
The man that had ridden in beside him dismounted and the woman followed suit, still watching Sansa warily. Sansa stood a little taller, though she longed to run to her brother. To hold him close; to feel the flesh her father and mother had created. Stark flesh to match her own.  
“Lady Sansa.” The man knelt before her.  
“Lady Sansa.” The wild woman echoed, kneeling a little slower than her companion. Sansa remained silent. She knew nothing of these strangers.  
“I am Ser Davos Seaworth, Hand to Stannis Baratheon, the one true King of Westeros. This is Osha, a wildling woman but steadfast and loyal to your brother. She was with him when he lost his home and travelled to Skagos with him.” Sansa relaxed a little.  
“You are most welcome.” Her voice held no warmth. It so rarely did nowadays.  
Davos nodded to Osha, who turned and called for Rickon. The boy obeyed her immediately, though he seemed to pad over more like a wolf hunting than a young lord. The wildling said some words to her brother that Sansa did not understand and her brother replied in the same tongue.  
“He says you look like his mother, though he remembers little of her. And that this is not what home should look like.” The wilding explained. Rickon stared up at her, his eyes filled with sad curiosity; a lost little boy, desperate for answers to so many questions.  
“Much has changed. But we are what remains of our family Rickon, and this is what remains of our home.” Sansa smiled at him softly. Her heart ached as the woman translated the words. Did he not remember the language of their mother and father?  
When the woman was done, her brother’s face turned thunderous and he stuck out his bottom lip petulantly. He stamped his foot, releasing an angry cry. Shaggydog growled.  
“I think it best the little lord gets some rest.” Osha said to her, grasping the angry boy’s shoulders protectively. Sansa’s throat felt dry and she balled her gloved hands into fists to prevent herself from yanking her brother out of the Wildling’s grasp and hugging him tight. She gave a tight nod and stepped aside to let them pass. Davos smiled sadly at her. “It will take time, my lady.”  
“Thank you, Ser Davos.” She said, her voice colder than she’d intended. Speaking to a friend would take some getting used to.   
As she turned away, a voice rang out through the courtyard.  
“What’s wrong my lady? Family reunion not going as planned?” Damon jeered. Sansa swallowed her hatred and continued her way inside. Her brother needed her. Damon could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think I have been living in denial for some time, but this story is drawing to a close now! There is only about one proper chapter left, then an epilogue.  
> Maybe if I'd let some characters live it could just keep on going, but where's the fun in that?


	56. No Man Likes To Be Caged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all carry on  
> When our brothers in arms are gone  
> So raise your glass high  
> For tomorrow we die,  
> And return from the ashes you call

Rickon’s limited common tongue was perhaps the least of Sansa’s concerns. Her brother had grown up wild and unruly. Sansa could not blame him for it. Mother and father had been taken from him at too young an age. Each Stark child had walked a different path, one that had treated each as cruel as the others. Sansa had not forgotten the faceless assassin that had poisoned Ramsay; how the face had slipped, revealing her sister beneath. How could Arya, Arya Underfoot, Arya Horseface, have ended up as an assassin?  
Sansa’s understanding of their twisted fates did little to help train Rickon into the Lord he needed to be. He could only concentrate for a short while, and when he grew bored he grew angry. Even the maester feared him after Rickon stabbed his hand with a quill. Considering the maester had once served the Boltons, the man’s fear of Rickon proved unsettling.  
When Rickon was not being pinned down to learn his letters, the boy escaped to the Godswood with Shaggydog. No one except the Skagosi and that Wildling woman dared to disturb them. He seemed more comfortable amongst the foreign savages, speaking their rough tongue and listening to their tales of war and battles. Sansa herself did not fear them, and had even found some pleasure with some. They were hard, savage men. Much like Ramsay had been.  
But caged men grew restless, and it was not long before Ser Davos approached her; his whole hand clenched into a nervous fist.  
“We promised them riches and battles. They wished to feast on the flesh of the Little Wolfs enemies. If something is not done soon, they will help themselves to riches, make their own battles, and…”  
“Eat the servants?” Sansa offered dryly. Davos pursed his lips and gave her a pointed look. “What is your council then, Ser Davos?” She sighed.  
“The Northern Lords wished for a Stark as their overlord, like it used to be. They surely knew it would come at a cost. Issue a tax. That would cover the riches. Battles they can do without. And the flesh of their enemies too, if the Gods are good.” Davos clutched his hands behind his back, awaiting her answer. Sansa stared into the hearth thoughtfully. She was certain that the Northern Lords would take no pleasure paying the Skagosi. They despised them too much. But Davos spoke truthfully. She would simply have to meet their strength with her own.  
“You keep to the Southern Gods, do you not?”  
“I do, my lady.” Sansa smirked to herself.  
“They will not hear you so far North. The Skagosi will receive what they desire, in part. Though I fear he may be a little on the scrawny side by now.” Sansa chuckled darkly, her smile as sweet as lemon cakes.

The foul smelling furs did little to stop Reek from shivering. What teeth remained to him clattered together noisily. The pain of it made him whimper and wail too, which made master growl in irritation. Additionally, his stomach never ceased to ache. They had finished the last of the dog meat a day and a half ago.  
Whining, Reek peered out from beneath the rotting furs to see his master pacing the perimeter of the kennels, like a caged beast. Each day the beast grew angrier. Each day people passed them by as though it were normal to have two humans locked up in a kennel. Most ignored the beast and his little companion. Others taunted and mocked. Some even whacked sticks along the bars to provoke the beast as a form of entertainment. They would tap away until he made a grab for them, then they’d dodge and strike his outstretched arm, making him roar with rage and pain. He had grown too slow and weak to catch those that provoked him, and so his master would release his rage on Reek until the creature screamed and begged for him to stop. Reek had already been weak, now he was skin and bone. His master should have cared for him, but being caged had turned his master into a different person; stripping him of everything human and revealing the animal underneath. Damon was feral and vicious, and always on the defensive. He had killed Ramsay’s girls with his own hands. They too had fallen hungry, and much preferred the taste of human flesh to each other. It was eat or be eaten, though Damon’s method had made Reek vomit. As the darkness around them had invaded his master’s mind, the dogs had suffered more brutal deaths, and Damon would hiss a name over and over with each kill. _Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.  
_ Reek had learnt to listen out for the tell-tale signs of what his master might do next. He had learnt to read them all. The one he heard now was rare. The grunting suggested a curiosity extending outside of the kennel walls. Reek heard his master cease his pacing and heard him breathing in deep, like a dog would when it caught a scent. He listened as his master turned and steadily moved towards the gates. Only then did Reek look to see what might be occurring. He did not move from beneath the furs. Master had not told him he could, but there was certainly something strange afoot. A crowd of rough-faced foreigners had gathered around the gate, eyeing Damon as though he were a piece of meat. Reek began to tremble, hoping they would not look his way like that.  
By a seemingly silent command, the crowd parted. Reek started to tremble a little more as he saw that…that _woman_. The one who had caused all the pain.  
“Hello Damon.” She cooed.  
“Lady Sansa. It’s good of you to come see us. I’d offer you some dog meat, but we’ve run out I’m afraid. There might be an organ or two lying around somewhere. Perhaps you’d like to come inside and help me look?” Reek could hear the grin in his master’s voice and cowered away, whimpering.  
“You must be hungry.” Lady Sansa smiled sweetly.  
“I _am_ rather peckish.” Damon was leaning against the bars, though Reek sensed it was more to keep himself stood up straight than to be intimidating. If that was what he was going for, it wasn’t working. Sansa was stood so close Damon could reach out and wrap his hands around her slender neck. Reek wondered how he was managing to restrain himself.  
“Very well. We are holding a feast soon. Perhaps you would like to join us?” Sansa cocked her head.  
“Only if my pet can join me.” Damon sneered. Sansa’s smile only widened. “Why, it would be cruel for him to miss such a grand event.” Stepping back, Sansa turned to a man by her side. He wasn’t like the others. His face was creased, his hair grey. He hesitated for a moment, giving Sansa a pleading look before turning to a foreigner and commanding him in an alien tongue Reek did not understand.  
Damon began to back away as the men opened the gates and streamed in. He could tell by the way they approached and the way they were looking at master that they were not about to attend a feast as Sansa had said. Damon seemed to sense it too. Reek held his breath as his master stopped backing away and tensed; a dog cornered. He pounced, releasing a feral snarl. Reek screeched as he saw a blur of teeth and fist. There was blood, and he was certain it belonged to his master.  
He was so focused on what was happening to Damon, he hadn’t even noticed the two men approaching him. Reek did not possess the fight his master had. He was too weak, too afraid. This master wouldn’t save him. This master couldn’t even save himself. It made Reek so angry, yet he still could not bring himself to fight as the two men reached down to grab him. He cowered a little and released a whine; shrieking as they yanked him up roughly.  
Damon was still fighting as Reek was led past, though the fight had slowed a little. Once he realised Reek was gone, Damon collapsed in a heap, still hissing and spitting as they dragged him to his feet and marched him out of the kennels. The cold winter air seemed to freeze Reek’s lungs, and he wheezed pitifully. His eyes stung with tears from how bright the sky seemed to be. He was unsure of how long exactly they had been left to rot in the kennels.  
“I have missed you pet.” Reek trembled at the voice and was unable to look up, though he knew she stood only a matter of feet away. “You aren’t afraid of me are you?” Her voice was so gentle, so full of understanding. It made Reek sob. “What has the nasty beast done to you?”  
“You leave him be whore! He’s _mine_.” Damon roared, desperately fighting against the men who held him. They laughed at his feeble attempt to escape.  
“Yours?” Sansa scoffed. “What would Lord Ramsay think of that? Can’t you hear him cursing you from the hells Damon? I’m sure he’ll make your death seem like a swim in the hot springs when you join him.” Reek whimpered at her words, sobs making him heave and gasp for breath. She forced his face up to look into her eyes. “You have some decisions to make Reek.” There was a certain madness about her look. Her gaze was frighteningly familiar, and the kind voice chilled him to the bone. “You can be my pet again, or you can die with your current master.” Reek howled in fear. Fear of death, for he was such a coward. And from the fear of making his own decisions.  
“Perhaps I will do you a kindness, and make the decision a little easier for you pet?” He did manage to look her in the eye without needing to be forced to then. His brow furrowed and his mouth gaped open as he slowly began to make sense of what she was saying. Sansa smiled, pleased by his realisation, then turned her back on him.  
“He is a traitor, and an enemy to my brother.” Sansa called out, gesturing to Damon. The Skags that knew a little of the common tongue translated for their friends and soon enough the entire courtyard was filled with cries for Damon’s flesh.  
Sansa turned towards Damon and smiled a wicked smile. Reek shuddered and cringed, recognising it. Ramsay used to where that smile on his hunts or when he was flaying or torturing someone. So afraid of the smile, Reek barely noticed when he pissed himself.  
“Do with him what you will.” Sansa ordered, her sinister smirk widening as they brought a large cooking pot forward and Damon began to beg for mercy.

“Did you give the maester my orders?” She asked the moment the door opened.  
“Yes my lady.” Davos replied wearily.  
“And you remained with him until all the letters were sent?”  
“As you commanded.” Sansa just nodded and gestured for him to take a seat. She poured wine for him herself. “I don’t trust the maester. I’ll get another as soon as I can.”  
“He served Lord Bolton?” Davos asked, watching her.  
“Yes.” She practically spat the word. “That’s why I want rid of him. I don’t want him around my little brother.” Sansa took a sip of wine.   
“You are doing well, Lady Sansa. I know I am not the best to judge.” Davos confessed. Despite the brutality of her most recent execution, he couldn’t deny that she had done well. Almost single-handedly, she had rid the North of Bolton rule and restored the rightful heir.  
“Winter is far from done, Ser Davos. First we have the Skagosi to deal with, as well as the Northern Lords. They will not accept this tax without a fight. And once the crown gets word of this…there may be war again.”  
Davos was silent. She had thought it all through. Though her gender did not gain her favour, Davos sensed she would make a good ruler.  
“Perhaps you could propose a marriage alliance instead? Either for you or Rickon. Queen Margaery knew you once, did she not?”  
“She did, and we were close. But a Stark shall never again go south. Not while I live. My father, my mother, my brother. They all went south. The place of the Starks is in the North. In Winterfell.” Sansa’s voice was cold as frost, her tone as stubborn as ice.   
Davos slipped a hand into the pocket of his jerkin and pulled out a letter. “I pray you remember your own words my lady.” He said, holding the roll of parchment out to her and standing up. Sansa took it. Turning it over in her fingers, she frowned down at the Mockingbird sigil embedded in black wax.  
“A Stark shall never again go south.” He repeated. Sansa remained silent as he left.  
After a moment, the hand clasping the roll of parchment fell to the side of her chair. “Put that on the fire for me pet. Make sure not a shred of it remains.” __  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, again. I just didn't want to kill Damon **cries**


	57. Rickon the Bloody, Sansa the Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I wanna dream  
> I wanna dream  
> Leave me to dream

“This is madness!” The Greatjon boomed, slamming his fist down on the table. “We didn’t ask for the Skaggs. Lord Stark, aye, we all prayed for our young lord’s return, but the Skaggs…”  
“Fed him, raised him, trained him to fight, brought him home. I too would have preferred him brought up and returned home by his own kind, but alas his own kind were in their keeps, cowering from winter.” Sansa raised an eyebrow.  
“Cowering? We Northmen do not cower. Though I do not expect you to understand that, my _lady_.” He spoke with a little more respect in his voice, but Sansa could read the insult within the formality.  
“I understand Northmen all too well Lord Umber. The blood of the first _men_ runs through the veins of the Starks, as does the blood of the Kings of Winter. My father was warden of the North. You yourself proclaimed my brother as your King. Do not doubt my understanding, Lord Umber. We Starks _are_ the North.” She said, her voice as cold as ice.  
“I did not come here to argue over your wisdom, Lady Sansa. This tax you’ve put on us is foolhardy. You cannot expect the Northern Lords to bow down and accept it. We will not pay the Skaggs, nor will we be commanded by a woman.”  
“You had no issue accepting the commands of a traitor. In fact I recall very little resistance to Roose Bolton’s rule.” Sansa narrowed her eyes scathingly.  
“Nor did you object to becoming one.” He retorted. Sansa gave a small smile. “Indeed, I played my part well. And now House Bolton is no more and the Starks rule the North again. I am sure you have heard the tales of my late husband’s demise?”  
“I’ve heard rumours.” He said darkly.  
“Do not make the mistake of using my marriages against me, Lord Umber. The blade you wield is a double-edged one. You attended my first wedding, did you not?”  
“I did.”  
“And the wedding feast?”  
“Aye.”  
“And you heard me screaming?” Sansa glanced away then, forcing a pained expression onto her face. He saw her as a foolish young girl. She could allow him to see a little fragility. It would make him lenient. The Greatjon simply nodded in answer to her question.  
“The Northern Lords did nothing to help me then…”  
“Lady Sansa-“  
“…that I can understand.” She admitted, almost gently. “But the Boltons are dead. The sooner the Skaggs are paid, the sooner they shall return to Skagos, and the North will be at peace again.”  
The Greatjon seemed lost for words. He stared at her, conflicted. Sansa had grown weary of his argument now.  
“Or they can remain. But I warn you, the Skagosi grow hungrier by the day.” Sansa kept his gaze, biting back a smile. She must be as cold as the North. The Northmen would not appreciate any murmur of southernism in her demeanour.  
“So be it. But some others may take this as a slight.” He warned.  
“I shall see to it that my gratitude is known, and that of my brother’s.” She smiled sweetly, and stood up, signalling that this meeting had reached its end. “If you will excuse me my lord, I would like to visit the Godswood.” A vexed silence was his only reply, but Sansa allowed it. It remained in the chamber behind her as she left him and made her way out into the snow.

Sansa sat beneath the Weirwood tree, with Ghost stretched out beside her, his head resting on his paws while she ran her fingers through his soft fur. Between the trees, she could glimpse Nymeria sniffing through the undergrowth. Of Rickon and Shaggydog there was no sign apart from the carcass of an unidentifiable animal she had come across on the path.  
“What am I to do with him Ghost?” Sansa sighed, leaning her head back against the bleached bark. Ghost raised his head and turned to look at her. There was something human about those eyes, as though he were speaking through them. It were almost as if he could understand her, as if he were trying to advise her with his gaze. It had unnerved her at first, but now she oft found herself asking him questions, and thanking him for his silent counsel. Now he gave her a look that told her she knew what needed to be done. It made Sansa sigh again. Had she been prepared for such a task? She knew how to manipulate; to deal with men and get them to do her bidding. Was that the same as ruling?  
Not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like if she had a man beside her. A man to rule with her. Ramsay would have been too brutal for ruling, she knew that now. He had served his purpose, but that was all he had been. A step. Nothing more, despite what she may have believed. Roose had preferred to keep her locked up like some pet. Petyr was Littlefinger. He would always put his own desires before anyone else’s. Besides, he belonged in the South. The North was too harsh for him.  
Sansa closed her eyes. What if the son Ramsay’s seed had made had lived? Rickon was wild. Untameable. But her son would have been different. She would have raised him to be a lord. She would have readied him until he came of age, perhaps even beyond. And he would have listened to her and followed her council. Her little Eddard would have been a Stark; born to rule the North as Starks were.  
But her son was dead, and she was left with her unruly brother.   
Sansa’s eyes opened of their own accord when she sensed someone was watching her. Rickon was half hidden behind a tree, but he only flinched a little when their eyes met. Sansa forced herself to swallow her thoughts. He was just a boy. He needed her, the dead did not.  
“Come here.” She commanded gently, holding out an arm.  
Warily, Rickon stepped forward, barefooted despite the dusting of snow on the forest floor. He did not sit down next to her as a part of her had wished, but he crouched down beside the pool, skimming his hands over the surface. Sansa watched him for a while. A long while.  
“Our father used to sit beneath this tree, do you remember that Rickon?” She asked after a while. He glanced up, but looked beyond her and at the tree. “He had a sword.” He said, each word said slowly, as though he struggled to control his tongue.  
“Yes.” Sansa’s voice choked a little, but the boy did not seem to notice. _The sword he was beheaded with_.  
“Maester Luwin died here.” Rickon mumbled, dipping his hand into the water and staring sadly at his own distorted reflection.  
“Did he?” She had not known. Maester Luwin seemed like some figure from a dream now, one she recalled only if something reminded her of him. “Do you remember Maester Luwin, Rickon?”  
Rickon nodded. “I wanted to get something that would make him better. He said no.”  
“And you remember father don’t you?” Sansa asked, suddenly desperate to connect with this boy. The young girl inside her was reaching out, begging for the chance to open the door and shed light on a life she had left behind the day her father’s head was removed on the steps of Baelor’s sept.  
“I remember. He died.” Rickon said through gritted teeth, as though angry.  
“And mother and Robb, you remember them?”  
Rickon nodded.  
“And you know what happened to them?”  
“The onion knight told me.” Sansa recalled Davos once telling her how he had come to be known as the onion knight. She continued to watch her little brother as he slapped his hand against the water, causing angry waves to crash over the edge. “You are the lord of Winterfell now Rickon.” She told him quietly.  
“I don’t want to be Lord of Winterfell.” He mumbled.  
“You are the heir, the last living son of Stark blood.” Sansa sighed. _I don’t want you to be Lord of Winterfell either_. The notion was selfish, but not wholly foolish. No matter how well she taught him, he would always crave the freedom of responsibilities that no Lord could ever gain.  
“Bran is older, and so is Jon.” Sansa felt a tear slide down her cheek and she wiped it away angrily.  
“I spoke with Osha about Bran, and you know about Jon. They’re both dead.” Sansa gripped Ghost’s fur tightly. Rickon glanced up at the Weirwood tree, then to Ghost. He stared deep into the red eyes of the wolf. “No they aren’t.” He insisted, his voice haunting. Ghost lifted his head a little higher.  
From somewhere within the Godswood, Shaggydog howled and Rickon leapt to his feet, yowling a reply.  
“Rickon…” Sansa half-heartedly called out to him, but the barefooted boy was already gone; slipped between the trees. Recalling stories Old Nan had once told them, Sansa smiled to herself and pictured a child of the forest with Rickon’s features.

When the opening and closing of a door sounded, he took a moment to stretch his limbs. He could not tell how long he had been asleep for, but judging by the ache he felt in his joints, it had been a long time. Yet he felt no hurry to rise. This was a peaceful place. A happy place now.  
He stretched his back for a moment longer before rolling onto his knees. Eyes still thick with sleep and heavy-lidded, he crawled over to where he knew she’d be; beside the fire, in the chair that had once been mas- no, Lord Ramsay’s.  
“Feeling lazy pet?” She crooned, running her hand through his knotted curls, making him moan fondly. He could smell wolf on her, but it no longer frightened him. The beasts did not come in this room. No one came in this room except for mistress and any other servant she allowed inside. It was just for them. It was his sanctuary, in a sense. Not a prison, no. He was safe here, mistress had promised.  
“You need to wake up for me pet. There’s something I need to tell you.” Reek looked up at her then, his blue eyes wide and child-like, hanging on to her every word.  
“You know the castle that was once Lord Ramsay’s home?” Reek frowned then, suddenly fearful.  
“The Dreadfort?” His voice was a chapped whisper.  
“Yes, very good pet.” Sansa’s grip tightened a little in his hair and she looked away from him, staring into the flames and smiling. It was the smile she rarely used, but chilled Reek to the bone. It was the smile Lord Ramsay used to use when he had done something wicked and cruel.  
“I had the place burned to the ground, pet.”  
It were as though the walls of his insides were collapsing in on themselves. Reek reeled away from her, clutching his chest and sobbing, begging wordlessly for breath.  
Burned? The Dreadfort had belonged to the Boltons. Reek had been born beneath it. Theon Greyjoy had died there. Now that it was gone, Theon felt no freedom. He still would not let go of Reek. Perhaps the burning down of the Dreadfort meant he was trapped forever now?  
“Hush now, sweet pet.” She cooed, her gentle voice opening up Reek’s airways and allowing him to breathe again. “You have nothing to fear now. The Boltons are gone. The Northern lords pay their tax. My brother allows me to rule in his stead. Everything is fine. We are safe.”  
Reek stared into the flames, thinking how her words sounded more like an attempt to convince and comfort herself than him. Reek cared not for the Northern Lords. Reek cared not for the little savage lord. Reek cared only for Lady Sansa. There was no one else left to him now.  
As if she could sense his discomfort that surrounded the happenings of the outside world, his mistress resumed her gentle stroking of his hair, and Reek rested his head against her thigh; gazing up at her as if she were the only thing that mattered, because to Reek she was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this whole thing to the very end! I have received so much encouragement and so many lovely things about this work, so thank you for all your kind words and kudos!


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